


JANUARY, 18S0. 

THE LEISURE-HOUR SERIES. 

A collection of works whose character is lisrht and entertaining, though not trivial. 
While they are handy for the pocket or the satchel, they are not, either in contents or 
appearance, unworthy of a place on the library shelves. 16mo, cloth. $l per Vol, 


THE BRO- 


ABOUT, E, 

THE man with 

KEN Ear. 

THE NOTARY’S NOSE. 

ALCESTIS. A Mufticul 
Novel, 

ALEXANDER, Mrs. 

THE WOOING O’T. 

WHICH SHALI. IT BH? 

Ralph Wilton’s weird. 
HER DEAREST P'OE. 
HERITAGE OF LANGDALE. 

Maid, Wife, or widow! 
THE FRERES. 
look BEFORE YOU I.EAP. 
THE A^MIRAT-’S W’AR'D. 

THE HXECU'IOR. 

A Second Li 
A r bay. 

AUERBACl 

THE VILLA or 
2 vols. with Po 
Black fork 
The Ll lTLE B 
JOSEPH IN THI 
Edelweiss. 

GERMAN TALI 
On THE HEIGI 
THE CONVICT5 
LOKLEY AND I 
ALOYS. 

POET AND Mr: 

LANDOLIN. 

Waldfrihd. 

BRIGITTA. 

SPINOZA. 

Master Biei.and. 

BEERBOHM, J. 

Wanderings in Patagonia 

BEERS, HENRY A. 

A CENTURY OF AMERICAN 
LllERATURE. 

BESANT, Walter. 

The revout of man. 

BJORNSON, B. 

The Fisher-Maiden. 

BUTT, B. M. 

Miss molly. 

Eugenie. 

Deucia. 

Geraldine Hawthorne. 

CADELI., Mrs. H. M 

Ida craven. 


CALVERLEY, O. S. 

F LY- L E a V ES. Verses . 

“ CAVENDISH.” 

Card F:ssays. Clay’s Decisions 
nnci Card 'J'able 'I'alk. ^ 

CHERBULIEZ, V. 

Joseph noirel’s Revenge. 
COUNT kostia. 

Prosper. 

CONWAY, HUGH. 

Cat.led Back. 

Dark D.\ys. 

Bound I'ogether. 
CARRISTON’S gift. IllHStr . 
A Family Affair. 

Slings and Arrows. 

' A Cardinal Sin. 

CORKRAN, ALICE. 

Bessie Lang. 

-TOWN 


LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

§|a{L?.Z.^ @np5rig|t a. 

Shelf 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 


GIFT. THEO. 

Preitv Miss Bellkw, 

Maid Ellice. 

A matter-of-Fact Girl. 

GOETHE, J. W Von. 

Elective affinities. 

GRIFFITHS, Arthur 

Lola. 

GROHMAN, W. A. B. 

Gaddings with a Primi- 
tive PEOPLE. 

HARDV, THOMAS. 

Under the Greenwood 
tree. 

A Pair of Blue Eyes. 
Desperate Remedies. 

Far from the madding 
Crowd. Ulus , 

Hand of Ethelberta. 

'’’^E Native. 
Jmajor. 

fTi^A Jllutir. 
iVER. 

INRICH. 

s. 

TR. 

s of ibich- 

R, G. H. 

)W. 

I.A.M. 

ARNIVAL. 

L A. W. 

Casket. 

Ira. O. 

-Pays. 


1 _ 


Christine. 

ERSRINE, Mra. T. 

WYNCOTE. 

FEUILLET, O. 

ROM ANCE OF A POOR YOUNG 
Man. 

FOTHERGILL. JES- 
SIE. 

The first Violin. 

Probation. 

thf. Wellfields. 

ONE OF THREE. 

Kith and Kin. 

PERIL. 

HEALF,Y. 

FRANOILLON, R.E. 

Under Slieve-Ban. 

FREYTAQ, Q. 

INGO. 

Ingraban. 

GAUTIER, T, 

CAFrAlN FRACASSE. Ulus. 


A PSYCHE OF TO-DAY. 
Madame de Beaupre. 
Jupiter’S Daughters. 
Within an ace. 

JOHNSON, Rosslter. 

PLAY-DAY POEMS. 

LAFFAN, MAY. 

THE HON MISS FERRARD. 
Christy Carew. 

LAWLESS, HON. 
EMILY. 

A Chelsea Householder. 
A Millionaire’s Cousin. 

LUCY, HENRY W. 

GIDEON FLEYCE. 

McClelland, M.G. 

OBLIVION. 

MoGRATH, T. 

Pictures from Ireland. 

MAJENDIE,Lady M 

Giannetto. 

Dita. 




I 

I 




' i. 





LEISURE-HOUR 


MAXWELL, CECIL. 

A Story of Thr ee Sisters. 

MOLESWORTH.Mra 

Hathercourt, 

NORRIS, W. E- 

matrimony. 

Heaps of money. 

No New thing. 

OLIPHANT, Mrs. 

WHITELA 1 >IES. 

PAL GRAVE, W. G. 

Hermann Agha. 

PARR, LOUISA. 

Hero Carthew. 

Robin. 

PLAYS FOR PRI- 
VATE ACTING. 

POYNTER, E. F. 

My Litfle Lady. 

Ersii.ia. 

AMONG THE Hills. 
Madame de Presnel. 

RICHARDSON, S. 

CLARISSA HARLOWE, 

<Unsed,) 

RICHTER, J. P, F. 

FLower,fruit,and Thorn 
Pieces, avols. 

Campaner Thal, etc. 

TI'I'AN. 2 vols. 

Hesperus. 2 vols. 

The Invisible Lodge. 


(Con. tin. vied,.) 

ROBERTS, MUs. 

Noblesse Oblige, 

On the iCDGK OF Storm, 

IN THE Olden time. 

SCHMID, H. 

The Habermeister. 

SERGEANT, ADEL. 

Beyond Recall. 

SHAKESPEARE, W. 

COMPLETE WORKS. 7 Vols, 

SIME, WM. 

The red ROUTE. 

SLIP in the FENS, A 

SMITH. H. and J. 

Rejected Addresses. 

SPARHAWK, F. O. 

A Lazy Man’s Work. 

SPIELHAGEN, F. 

What the Swallow Sang. 

SPOFFORD, H. P. 

The Amber Gods. 
Azarian. 

STEVENSON, R. L, 

New Arabian Nights. 

THE dynamiter. 

STURGIS, JULIAN. 

MY FRIENDS AND I. 

THACKERAY, W. M. 

Early and Late Papers. 


SERIES. 


TYTLER, O. O. P. 

Mistress Judith. 

JONATHAN. 

TURGENIEFF, I. 

Fathers and Sons. 
Smoke. 

Liza. 

On the Eve. 

Dimitri roudinh. 

Spring floods; Lear. 
Virgin soil. 

Annals of a Sportsman. 

VERS DE SOCIETE. 
VILLARI, LINDA. 

In Change Unchanged. 

WALFORD, L. B. 

Mr. Smith. 

Pauline. 

cousins. 

troublesome daughters. 
Dick netherby. 

The baby’s Grandmother 

WINTHROP, THEO. 

Cecil Dreeme, tv. Portrait 
Canoe and Saddle. 

John brent. 

Edwin Brothertoft. 

Life in the Open air. 

WYLDE, Katharine. 

A Dreamer. 

An Ill-Regulated Mind. 

YESTERDAY. 


McClelland’S oblivion. 

16mo. Leisure-Hour Series. $1.00. 

“ Suggests the skill of George Eliot.”— 77ie Crltio. 

“ A genuine creation.”— JBo.9«on Adi^erliser. 

“Remarkable and admirable.” — N. Y. Tribune. 

“ A good story, written with much skill and pathos.”— .PT. F. Times, 


AMERICAN NOVEL SERIES. 

IGmo. Cloth. $1.00 each. 

A LATTER DAY SAINT.— THE PAGANS. By ArlO 
Bates.— ESTHER. By F. Snow fcoMPTON.— STRATFORD- 
BY-THE-SEA.— AMONG THE CHOSEN. 


BRASSEY’S (LADY) IN THE TRADES, THE 
TROPICS, AND ROARING FORTIES. 

Witt 203 illuatrationsi 8vo. $5.00; 


HE-NRY HOLT & CO., Publishers, New Vwb. 



*“■ * r- ^ »lv' 

t »* n %• * • _ > • -*A_ 


r--*-^ , I; 


V .I.- 

•\ ' » ^ . 


■ 1 


> 

• w 


» ^ r S 




1> '. ' 


^ r. •. 

ft V « ft 


A 


^•'4' 


A 


• .-fvi ;. ■ .. V 

-<'. ' : »,^v • • 

“V^V^ r/ ' 

• ■ -SCT. '• * — 


• -’•V 


\ 

1 / 


4 

4 ft 






% . 


• « 


:•. 4 ' ^ . 


ft . 


> • 






.'i 


*j ' ' . 

i -: ■ ' ^ 


•.-C^. •;! 






r. 


'-i 


. V 




« 

' r 


I *' 


• - *# 


— . ^ ‘v^v 

■ ‘ ^ ^'i'. ■• ' 



ft .• . 


t — 


I 


.51 


S- 


I 


' » ^ 


, r: 

-1' • ■ 

, 1. ■ -.r-?^ ^‘* • • 

^ ft*. -*. 

RiSvf 

f**»‘ \ n :, 




■,r *^- 

• Nt •. >A ,'* ■ • •- 


• 4 




V* < ■ - 

.; 


'' ' \t 

%✓ r. - 

'* '5''** t • ’ •■ 


- -V ^ 


" V** 

' ' - ^ "• ■ ; 




' 9 ** 


* 9, 
« 4 


ft 


« 

/ f 


.r 




' -^ • 


A 


t ^ - 


. ' r'fc ' /» 


^ vl 


' ' ;'• •’■ -si:-' ’ 


^ ♦ ft • f" ^ 




J ft. 


1 

A • 


-• '. “ 






\4 . 


^ V 

. j 

V 


rf , ^ 
\ • 


tW L' ' '^ ' ' 


• .^1* L . 


; 


4 • 


. ^ 


i 



d 

_ .ft 

fft.‘ 


/ 


X* 


I ft 


’ V- 




-- . ' * i.ft- 


ft * 

'v • 


V ^ 




; • • V 




• 7 


VV 


7* - 


■*** 


4 ^ 

^ •• 

• V ■ ' 


; ♦ 


h f 


k...,::.. 

i, ' * 




- \ 

( - 



t 




r. 


^ i 


4 




* 'ir*> ^ 'V * * 

uVZ ■ ' 

> i / 


. 

V* •- 

• ^ eft ‘ ^ . • ^ . V ' 


/ 


# • 


* 

• • 
f-'' 


✓ • 


. - ft 


^ * A 




V 4 


. 'ft 

“ l-> 


« « «• 


1^ 


5^-, 'ir^ , •• • ^ 

J . 

•‘- A. 


• ^ 

- .t 


V 

• 't.'.v 




■- ■ ■ 4 ••V '• 
. • ■ .'7 '1 - 

- 'x. / 




I *. - > 
•# 


. ft 

. V 


v- 

ft 




. ft 


.• i 


% * 


/ 


' ‘.V 

• • •./ . 


I'l' 

< '-'u 


' %. 


v- 


1 


S ■;> 

« 

<1. ^ 


V « 


I 

, 







\ 


y • 


.V 


% ,?■ > 

. • ft * 


A 


.* 1^0. 


A ^ 



✓ 


I « 





LEISURE HOUR SERIES.— No. 184. 


AFTER HIS KIND 


BY- 


JOHN COVENTRY 

4 





Orlando ; Are you native of this place ? 

Rosalind : As the conie, that you see dwell where she is kindled. 

— As You Like It ; Act. III. Sc. 2. 




NEW YORK 
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
1886 



? 2.3 


Copyright, 1886, 

BY 


HENRY HOLT & CO- 


TO THE 


WINIFREDA 

OF MY REAL LIFE, 

WHOSE CHARMS AND VIRTUES ARE FAINTLY REFLECTED 
IN THE WINIFRED OF MY FICTION. 


iJ 'I? f 


♦ * 


. .• 


ct 


t ‘ • 

r 


^ A>- 


.IV: 


* ^ 




lW 






'W 


r.v 










'M 


'TO 


»1 

t r 




'Tf. 


« ^. ‘ r . . iii 


■» 


.«K*" 


V>^ »: 


^ I 1 

^ •? • 


* 


.f* 


■ fe 


ti.fi 




..tr 


f J ' • 

' W*". r 


' Jil* 






•^ > jt •*■ » ' 


‘ '^.V 


i .' 




*>. M.. 


T 


-9^ 




>.‘ v; 


:**Tii.>'' 


'’'1 


I*. 


r^ ' » 




* J r. 




y;*V 


^■; ,*^_V 


I* ^ 


■‘i: 




43tj 




Vs 










TV- 


- • 

> t 


rtt- 






1 1 1 ^ 




fc. 










i 


> j 

t 






*\r 


% 




• I. 


^ *Ji 






V ./•.‘■‘'•-I' 


' -*». 
\ .t. 


'i> 






t’l ^ ■ -■<;#... .!♦■ ; ‘ •-'♦*.♦ v' ' «mb .Tfpy 




a 


r^ 


•* 


/* 












>»» 




I'’! ‘**» \ i 


ItoW 


V- 




»< A 


lU 


> ’ 


•'?L 






♦ • 






■fi'^ 








*3^ 




M?*' 

, r : k<4 ’ 'V.' . 




) « « 




« 4 I 


(4 






r<» 


■» 


: f!. • 7^ 






iV^ 






I *' 


1 'L 


rv'^M- 


.sj 








t •« 


, r 




•. %' 


.< 


•fc.'. 1. 




j 


■■ .4 






^ •«. 


iftV 


.V ^ 


L*a 


?♦' .- 




i3t 




• • < 

4 : 1 '^ 


il 4 




A- ;• . ^ 


1 I 


V“* 


I' 


^L - 


J-'-^ 




:*-; 5 V. 


V > 


^ * 




v£:5 


I. *. • 




' r • ' '».4 

’*■' ‘ V. • 'f* 








.'V 


-f. f 


« 


Ml ^ ^ 




*► 










0*- 






(i 




II 


T> *<r» 


A . 






j ? 


0 


if. 


u 


fi ‘4 










V 


-• * 


rf 




I*! 




A'.> 




Lii^ 






CONTENTS 


PAGE. 

Prologue: “ Surnamed Diabolus,” . . i 

I. At the Sign of The Chequers. — First Sight. 7 

II. Overstoke. — “ Sir Marmaduke,” . . .17 

III. Who are You ?— Phyllis, ... 28 

IV. Brignal. — Lady Goodluck, . . . .42 

V. Stray Links, ..... 53 

VI. The American at Overstoke, . . .62 

VII. The Squire’s Psalm. — At the Lodge, . . 72 

VIII. A Ramble and a Spectre, . . . .83 

IX. The Churchyard.— a Story and a Ribbon, . 97 

X. Social and Lyrical. — Declined with Thanks, . no 
XL Mistress and Maid, .... 130 

XII. Lady Goodluck at Home, .... 140 

XIII. Kith and Kin. — Playing with Fire, . . 153 

XIV. A Group. — “ You and I,” . . . . 163 

XV. Lost at Sea. — Dolly on Guard, . . 179 

XVI. Glamourie. — Drawing the Line, . . .194 

XVII. “ All’s Right with the World,” . . 210 

XVIII. A Nocturne, . . . . . .221 

XIX. A Minister of Grace and a Graceless Minister. 229 
XX. The Other Woman. — Barbara’s Trap. — Exit 

Vicar, ....... 243 

XXL Confidential. — The Romany’s Token, . 261 

XXII. Mildred’s Child. — At Last I ... 276 

XXIII. Death Rises to Explain, . . . 293 

XXIV. An End and a Beginning, . . . 307 

Epilogue: “Winifreda,” .... 316 




* 


» A . 

• * *! 


r 


I .f 


r. 


* < 


» •> 


f 

4 * 


j 

\ 



K r > 


« 


i 



'r 




*. t 


r-' 



V 

> 


I V 

! 


i 

-V-4. 


» > 


■ *)' 


, . ' ‘J . • 


f . i 

■• 4 


1 » * 

m 

1 .' 





i* 

J 



■■■' ■>■■ -^yS' ■ 

L*' ^ 

CV». ' 4 A 


r 4 





^ -J 

r 






Z'i 




PROLOGUE. 


“SURNAMED DIABOLUS.” 

O N the seventh day of August, 1782, the good 
ship Favorite, Buchanan master, sailed from 
Baltimore bound for Marseilles, with wheat, 
tobacco, and a Jonah, who, being cousin to the 
captain, familiarly Bob’d that gallant officer’s bap- 
tismal Robert. ’Twas a jovial Jonah of twenty- 
three, a curly-pated, comely and engaging scape- 
grace, unvexed by instructions of prophecy, whom 
any whale, not supernaturally dainty, might have 
entertained with pleasure ; and its profane name’ 
was Richard Shustoke, of Garrison, in the County 
of Baltimore, Gent. 

Just sixty-seven years before the eventful sail- 
ing of the Favorite, the grandsire and namesake 
of her bonny passenger, — to wit, Richard Shus- 
toke, of Wynhold, in the County of Midland, 
Gent. — had shaken English dust from his feet and 
fled oversea to the Maryland plantations, for fresh 
air and free thoughts. For the incubus of British 
respectabilities and bores, represented by many 


2 


PROLOGUE. 


generations of squires and county magistrates, 
relieved here and there by a high-sheriff for the' 
shire, had sat upon his protesting spirit, and 
would have squelched it flat and dry ; but when 
the deliverer came, in the name of Church and 
State, and invited younger sons and yeomen away 
to the virgin acres by the Chesapeake, away to 
the fair fields opened to courage and faith by the 
courtly Calverts, then he “ heard his days before 
him, and the tumult of his life — ” 

“ Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic 
sails. 

Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly 
bales ; ” 

and he flung the old conventional bore over the 
wall of the family graveyard, and fled westward 
for freedom and fortune, and all the rapture of 
the Improper. 

Established on the banks of the Severn (where 
he found ample scope for the exercise of his native 
sagacity and pluck, in the direction of wheat and 
tobacco, crude iron and water-power), he so rapidly 
enlarged his fortunes and his fame that within 
three years he took unto himself a wife, in the 
fair person of Mistress Johanna Carden, a “lady 
of quality,'" whose family, in respect of importance 
and influence, was second only to that of the 
Lords Baltimore. To the intellectual and moral 
sap in the stock of the Cardens the young State 
was indebted later for a beloved patriot and 


PROLOGUE. ^ 

statesman, an illustrious prelate, and more than 
one governor. 

Three boys were born to the Shustokes ; but 
before the oldest, Richard, had come to his 
majority, their father died. Then the widow 
took up her penates and her impedimenta, and 
with her lads moved northward to the rich Pat- 
apsco hills, and pitched her tents on new land in 
a forest, where once the earlier settlers had held 
a stockade against roving bands of red men. 
Hence they called the place “ Garrison,” and here 
they built a substantial manor-house, and dwelt 
secure and prosperous within ten miles of the 
coming Baltimore. Here, in 1756, the widow 
died ; here also Richard, in 1785, — married, but 
childless. James Carden Shustoke, never strong, 
nor ever taking kindly to the new home, had gone 
to join his father “ in the far land ” before the 
house was built. And so it was left to Charles, 
the youngest, who married early, to perpetuate 
the pithy Saxon stock among the hills of Mary- 
land, and to inscribe its name in the early annals 
of the State. 

Of the ten children of “ Charles and Rebecca,” 
this story has to do with only one, and for him it 
has but Hail and Farewell ! — for he was the Jonah 
of the Favorite. Strong, handsome and debo- 
nair ; impetuous, generous and brave ; incapable 
of a shabby thought and scornful of a prudent 
plan, he was turbulent and tender, reckless and 


4 


PROLOGUE. 


repentant, stubborn and pliant, defiant and gra- 
cious — either or all, within the measure of a mood, 
and while a dull man marveled. 

Hard rider, deep drinker, mad player, quick 
striker, fierce wooer, with his heart in his mouth 
and his purse in his hand, “ Devil Dick Shus- 
toke ! ” the despair of magistrates and clergy, the 
delight of women, the darling of servants, and the 
wonder of all. Only his mother understood him. 
When he had made the county too hot to hold him, 
she said, “ the dear boy is growing restless ; this 
place is dull for him, he needs change ; we all need 
change from time to time, the best of us. There 
is the sweet old home in England, that his grand- 
father loved to talk about. ’Tis time some one 
went over to see it, and our people there, the 
Midland Shustokes. There are the parish regis- 
ters and the churchyards and tombs; they would 
amuse him. He shall sail with Cousin Robert in 
the Favorite — for a change.” 

And he sailed, as we have seen ; he laughed, 
and he sailed away. And magistrates and clergy 
drew a long breath ; and the servants and the 
poor people cried like idiots ; and the women 
whispered, and watched each other, and asked, 
“ Which is the one ? ” 

And that was the last of the Favorite and 
Cousin Buchanan, wheat and tobacco and Devil 
Dick. 


PROLOGUE, 


5 


My love he built a bonny shipy 
A nd set her to the mainy 
Wi' twenty-four brave mariners 
To sail her out and hame ; 

But the weary wind began to risOy 
The sea began to routy 
A nd my love and his bonny ship 
Turned withershins about T 


n} 




>riT 








If- 








•?V 






■^ri.nx4; 








:v 


I m 




/' 


■ ' 33Bi 

iH^- 




r.i 




K • ^ 


A '•T* 


-A % 


? 


- 


^r.'* 




* » 


u ¥ 




r: 


i» 


I . 


-NS^ 


^ il ^ ' 


■i«f 




yjsjS: 


i7 


1 1 ' 


t» 


; - 




1. « 


£-t 




\a 


n 


% 


m 










’< b:*?'. 


jSr 


r , * ♦«- 


• •^ ~t . r3 T ‘^ • 




i6 






'vrw 


•J 41 








fcK; 


// 


:.>■ 




5»A 


m\ 


* • 


^v 


‘^4 








^hf' 




*?• 


-3' 














R.i 


-T *' » <• 


< T r: 






«iV 


Mi 


' . . **. 


i^f 




% 




*’r._> 


l*A 


«>□»: 


•» ./ 


r 




^ t 


.; V 




h>'> 




^ >f^ 


■ _y\ 


I'rBft'" .'*■ 




f> . AJ 


'••V 


\ , 


■K 




1 » 


< > 




•* 


#v ' »i 


>« 






<'> 


i-t** 


■V 


. I 




V* 


< '.- 


V : 






r-ci' 


’* ' 




vr 


Tr 


t 


1* • • 




ru 


5y'. 


'M ■ 




• i 


- •% 


i P' 




►i 


4 *W 

in 41.' 


w 








-v^ 










^i ■*“* 


♦> 


5. 


!-■ 




SIt?r,-^ r ’.' ' rrf, 


4r ^ 






fr 


* *.K 


f 


.)l 






tV. 


* 






II* 


V 


•^11# JJ 


jlC^ 


^y-- ’.i - :;; 






l'*'.ra 




- ^ ' ■* - ■ ^ 




ti •^^ 


«> / 




MM H 


^v.-:«.- -/r - 




1 / *. <• 




'■ 




.-•fV, f*4. 


4 . 



AFTER HIS KIND. 


CHAPTER I. 

AT THE SIGN OF THE CHEQUERS.— FIRST SIGHT. 



T“The Chequers,” at Yawdley, three roads 


and three coaches met : from northern .Syl- 
caster, and eastern Ausibel, and western Boling- 
stone. As yet the nearest line of rail was ten 
miles away ; as yet the branch,” with stations 
at Wynhold and Yawdley, was but a shareholder’s 
dream ; and so it was that even so late as 1851 
“The Chequers” was still a coaching house — 
one of the few “ merrie ” things remaining in 
Merrie England. So much the more jealously 
did “ The Chequers ” cling to its traditions, and 
from horse-trough to tap-room, from corn-bin to 
larder, from blowsy scullion to buxom bar-maid, 
from Boots to Boniface, proclaim itself a time- 
honored English hostelry, with entertainment for 
man and beast : as when the “ grave person ” in 
Joseph Andrews rode into the inn in the dusk of 
the evening, “and committing his horse to the 


8 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


hostler, went directly into the kitchen, and having^ 
called for a pipe of tobacco, took his place by the 
fire-side.” 

Ivy-draped to the chimney tops, with its upper 
casements diamond-paned and latticed, its square 
brown tower and mossy eaves and gables and 
embowered porch softly showing through the 
great oaks that screened it from the highway, this 
pleasant old house turned to the coming and the 
parting guest, alike, a countenance of conscious 
benevolence and peace : most like some genial 
gentlewoman of old family, who hath her func- 
tions of hospitality to discharge, graciously, as 
for the honor of her name. 

Luke Grotty, “ Sylcaster Luke,” as he turned 
his four well-bred bays, without checking their 
trot, into the broad coach yard, and brought them 
up gayly before the snug stables, was accustomed 
to deliver himself of a hearty “Hah!” of satis- 
faction, as he shouted to his quadrupedal coadju- 
tors, “ Well, here ye are, my sonnies ! where the 
beast is as good as the man.” 

And that jolly old buffer, Malthouse of Ausibel, 

a warm man ” in the ironmongery line, who 
stopped over for ‘‘ the Bolingstone ” for a bit o’ 
business, always napped in the tap-room in his 
slippers, between a toby of ale and a church- 
warden pipe, with his feet up on another fat chair; 
or poked the fire and hummed “ Come, gentle god 
of soft repose ! ” And when the time came for 


A T THE SIGN OF THE CHEQUERS, 


9 


him to take his place for Bolingstone, that sensu- 
ous ironmonger groaned reluctantly as he pulled 
on his boots, swore that “ The Chequers ” always 
made him feel like an unmarried turtle, and tipped 
the buxom bar-maid with a half-crown and a wink, 
for the rapture of hearing her remark (in a way 
of her own, that cleverly blushed at the coin and 
pocketed the wink), “ O, Mr. Malthouse, sir, you 
are just beautiful ! ” 

One day Toby Hindman, ponderous and rubi- 
cund, paunched superfluously even for his calling^ 
fat as to his eyes, fat as to his hands, fat as to his 
voice — Toby Hindman sat at the great round 
table in the parlor, feebly seeming to read the 
Bolingstone Patriot, while the buxom bar-maid 
pretended, more successfully, to explore the low 
ceiling for cobwebs, dust the sporting prints with 
a peacock brush, or polish the glasses on the great 
mahogany side-board. 

“ Dolly,” said mine host, “ did you observe the 
gent that took the Sylcaster inside this morning — 
the one with the lofty air, and tuppence for 
Boots? ” 

“Law! Mr. Hindman, sir, whatever could so 
deceive you? The person who inquired if my ale 
was from the wood ! The likes of such I never 
observe.” 

“ Then you did not hear what he arsked me? ” 

“ Never, sir ; I hope I know my place.” 

“Well, that gent with the tuppenny lofty air 


TO 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


arsked me, says he, ‘ Are you the proper-rioter of 
this ’otel ’ ? ” 

“O, the impudence! Well, did ever? And 
what did you say, Mr. Hindman, sir? O ! ” 

“ Dolly, for as much as a minute there was an 
awful silence ; you might have heard my blood 
boil. Then I just covered him, from his wig to 
his boots, with one of my glances. You know 
my scornful glance, Dolly ! ” 

“ O, Mr. Hindman, sir, don’t call it scornful, 
call it blarsting; that dreadful crushing it is. 
Many’s the glass it has made me drop (out of my 
poor little savings), with the tremors and the 
agitation of it.” 

Sir,’ says I, ^ have you observed my horse- 
trough, with 1750 cut in the rim?’ — ‘ No,’ says 
he. — ‘Nor my double pump?’ — ‘Nor the absurd 
pump,’ says he. — ‘Nor yet my stable clock, with 
chimes?’ says I. — ‘Nor even your melodious 
time-piece,’ says he, cheeky like. — ‘Then,’ says I, 
‘ I adwise you to improve your mind by exploring 
of them features, separate and collective.’ ” 

“And then? says he.” 

“‘And then,’ says I, ‘you’ll know a tidy old- 
fashioned English roadside inn, next time you see 
one. And while your hand’s in, if you’ll just take 
an intelligent obserwation o’ Me— I’m not super- 
cilious,’ says I, ‘ but I’m solid — you’ll not insult my 
father before me by calling of us proper-rioters of 
a ’otel. But,’ says I, ' if you’re suffering for one— 


AT THE SIGN OF THE CHEQUERS. 


one of the tuppenny lofty sort that was made for 
the likes of you — you just take a run over to 
Ausibel, and inquire for the wonderful ahss that 
took the old “ Bag-o ’-Nails ” last year and turned 
it into the Hotel Montmorenci, with a he-bar- 
maid. There you are, sir! ’otel, proper-rioter, 
and all,’ says I. 

“ ‘ And now, sir, may I make so free as to arsk,’ 
says I, in my sarkastical tone, ‘ if you demeaned 
yourself so far as for to cast your lofty eye on that 
there sign a-hangin’ on that there oak?’ ” 

“ Says he, ‘The Chequers, good old sign.’” 

“ ‘ May I appear so bold,’ says I, ‘ as to arsk if you 
are an ancient antiquarian ? ' — ‘ Hardly ’ says he. — 
‘ Hardly,’ says I ; ‘ old ancient antiquarians don’t go 
around a-moonin’ for ’otels and proper-rioters. 
But if you was one of them gentlemen and schol- 
ars,’ says I, ‘ you’d know that The Chequers was the 
sign of many an inn two thousand years ago in 
Pompey-eye ; and it meant that if any gent was 
agreeable for a quiet game o’ chess with another 
Roman gent, the house could accommodate him 
with the board and pieces. And though I’m no 
ancient antiquarian,’ says I, ‘ nor yet a scholar. 
I’m proud to know that them good old Romans, as 
inwented The Chequers, did wollop and wollop 
them sickly Frenchmen as inwented ’otels and 
proper-rioters.’ ” 

Dolly gasped: “And O, Mr, Hindman, sir, 
didn’t he just die? ” 


12 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


“ I did not notice,” said Toby. 


That day Toby Hindman sat in his pretty 
porch and waited for the coaches — the Ausibel 
“ Dispatch ” arriving first, the Bolingstone “ Speed- 
well ” usually a little later. These met daily at 
The Chequers, and exchanged passengers. The 
“ Sylcaster ” made the down trip on alternate days 
only, coming in the afternoon, putting up at the 
inn for the night, and returning northward in the 
morning — thus completing a sort of triangular 
arrangement for the accommodation of goers 
between the three towns : an arrangement which 
allotted to Sylcaster Luke a preponderance of 
influence and consideration at The Chequers, by 
reason of the suppers, beds and breakfasts he 
brought. 

As Toby sat in his porch, commanding from 
his point of vantage a view of the Ausibel road, 
as it sloped from his gate to Giddyburn bridge 
and then ascended — gently rising, gently winding, 
now hiding in a cover of woods, now showing 
again in the open, until it disappeared over the 
crest of Wynhold Hill — another man, on no hos- 
pitable or other cares intent, but insouciantj time- 
killing, lightly loafing, fondly musing, leaned on 
the stone railing of the sturdy little bridge, and 
also waited ; if one may be said to wait who merely 
stands in aimless, easeful idlesse, and plays with 


AT THE SIGN OF THE CHEQUERS. 13 

the skein of his own parti-colored thoughts. A 
figure of young manhood perfect in all its lines, 
complete in its expression of strength, agility, 
endurance, supple grace — as a palfrey, a grey- 
hound, a panther, is perfect ; a beardless, boyish, 
wanton face, surmounted by a characteristic dis- 
traction of light-brown locks ; features purely 
Greek in their perfection and refinement ; — in a 
word a man of startling and overbearing beauty, 
yet scornful of all beauty in a man. 

This transmuted slip of old Hellas, revealed to 
the clumsy paganisms of a Midland parish, had 
emerged from the thicket of Brignal Hurst melo- 
dious plot of beechen green and shadows number- 
less,”) and halted by Giddyburn bridge — booted 
and spurred, and clad in the brown velveteen riding 
garb of a young squire. 

And so he stood musing, his capricious moods 
and fancies revealing themselves by flitting 
gleams and glooms in the eloquent interpretation 
of his countenance. Presently, brightening gayly, 
he turned to where a daisied footpath, leaving 
the bridge on the farther side of the highway, 
wound under the oaks and alders of the Hurst ; 
and he traced in fancy its rambling course by the 
bank of the burn, until it swerved to the right and 
made straight for a gate and an arbor — and a lady ! 

For a moment he paused, stooping to peer under 
the low-hanging boughs, and through their jeal- 
ous lattice of leaves, that hardly parted even for 


14 


AFTER HIS HIND. 


his friendly glance ; and then, in a voice melodi- 
ous and resonant, he signaled to her in the fond 
old ballad of “ Brignal Banks ; ” and she responded 
playfully, matching him verse for verse, until the 
piping birds took part, and all the leafy nooks 
were songful. 

’Twas a pretty passage of colloquy, framed in 
a homely ditty, and the troubadour, wholly taken 
with the sport, had forgotten the coming coach. 
That gaudy chariot had turned the crest of Wyn- 
hold hill, and now came swaying and clattering 
down the incline, putting on more speed as it 
neared the bridge, to get headway for the shorter 
rise beyond, that ended only in the inn yard ; for 
Ausibel Jem had taught his four grays that no 
coach-horse, proud of its calling, would take that 
bit of slope in a walk, and crawl into The Chequers 
like a donkey. 

There were the usual passengers of the bucolic 
or small tradesfolk class, representing that stolid 
form of Commonplace which is so ethnographic- 
ally British. Only one was remarkable, and to 
that extent objectionable : a young man, seated 
with the coachman on the box, showing a face 
conspicuously handsome, full-bearded and almost 
extravagantly mustached — a face animated, genial, 
gracious, as of a pleasant comrade, and cos- 
mopolite well equipped. But his attire was 
aggressive, and challenged inquiry while it re- 
pelled impertinence: No coat, no waistcoat; 


AT THE SIGN OF THE CHEQUERS. I5 

oniyasort of shirt or blouse of fine blue cloth, 
the front simply plaited, and finished at the edges 
with small silk cord. On either breast was a 
pocket ; and three small gold studs, like beads, 
decorated the front. The cuffs were braided with a 
certain discreet elaboration ; and a white collar at 
the throat imparted to the garment a character so 
unique as to suggest the question : “ Have we 

here a gentleman masquerading as a superior 
artisan, or an artisan asserting the prerogatives 
of a gentleman ? ” 

Below the larger pocket on his left breast a 
smaller one was contrived, to hold a handsome 
watch : and a short but heavy chain of gold, 
severely plain, crossed his breast on that side, and 
was attached to the middle stud. On his head 
he wore a slouched hat of the sombrero pattern, low 
crowned, excessively wide in the brim, and jaunt- 
ily turned up at one side, with an effect so acci- 
dental that it might have been studied — especially 
as the broad lock of chestnut hair that escaped in 
front, and was softly tossed by the breeze of early 
Spring became the fellow cunningly. Loose 
trousers, of the same stuff and color as the shirt, 
and low shoes with fine gray stockings, completed 
a costume so happily adjusted to the man, that it 
seemed but the natural expression of his ways. 

As the coach came gayly on, and was now with- 
in a few rods of the bridge, the stranger drew 
from his breast-pocket a cigar-case, and was in the 


1 6 AFTER HIS KIND. 

act of opening it, when he first perceived the min- 
strel in the way. Then a strange thing happened : 
the man on the box looked down into the eyes of 
the man on the bridge, and the man on the bridge 
gazed up into the eyes of the man on the box, 
with equal intentness and scrutiny. Both faces 
brightened with the same expression of surprise 
and curious interest, and both men smiled pleas- 
antly, as in happy reciprocal recognition ; yet 
neither had ever seen the other before that 
moment, nor ever heard his name. Then the 
cigar-case fell from the stranger’s hand, who made 
a laughing gesture of dismay as it rolled in the 
dust. The other quickly caught it, and holding it 
on high, shouted “ At the inn, presently ! ” and 
“ Thank you, thank you ! ” came back from the 
coach as it smartly breasted the hill. 

Then the stranger turned to Ausibel Jem. 

“Who is that man ? ” 

“That’s Devil Dick.” 

“ What ! ” 

“No offense, I hope, sir?” 

“ Oh no ! — odd name, that’s all.” 

And Ausibel Jem remembered that that was all : 
“ not another word from the cove in the queer 
togs, till I brought up at the stables, and he 
hopped down as light as a dicky bird, and twice as 
pretty.” 

Meanwhile Troubadour lolled on the parapet of 
the bridge, and studied the cigar-case. 


A T THE SIGN OF THE CHEQUERS. 


17 


“ Silver — and in superlative taste.” 

He removed the lid, and drawing forth a cigar 
contemplated it fondly ; then held it under his 
dainty nose, and sniffed and sniffed, gazing into 
vacancy, as one who dreams dreams. 

“ I thought so. The man who smokes such 
exotics as this has seen the world, and seen it with 
the eyes of a gentleman.” 

Then idly turning the toy, he spied an inscrip- 
tion that had been hidden by his hand : — 

“ Julian Shustoke to John Grayhurst. 
San Francisco. 1849.” 

“ By all the immortal Gods ! ” he cried, and set 
his face eagerly toward the inn. 


CHAPTER II. 


OVERSTOKE. — “ SIR MARMADUKE.” 

OING afoot from Yawdley toward Ausibel, and 



VJ approaching Wynhold on the right of the 
highway, one comes upon a demure lodge of stone, 
browned with age and greened with mosses, 
guarding the great gate to the noble avenue of 
Overstoke. But the venerable and forlorn retainer 
who “ iver sin’ th’ owd squire’s time ’’had held the 
post of porter, has gone to knock at heaven’s gate 


now. 


Kit Abershaw, the bailiff, is the solitary tenant 
of the lodge, which has become a mere memorial 
of its own functions and traditions ; for Kit is 
away all day about a bailiff’s business, and so the 
great gate stands open between its stately pillars, 
where the cross-crosslets of the Shustokes, carved 
in stone, proclaim the careless hospitalities of a 
tribe whose ways were ever easy ways. 

The avenue at Overstoke is the pride of all that 
country side. When, in 1690, Rupert Shustoke 
(afterward high-sheriff for the county of Mid. 
land, and father and grandfather of his immediate 
successors in that office), came upon the words 


O VER STOKE . ‘ SIR MARMADUKET 1 9 

wherein Richard Evelyn describes the glorious 
approach to Baynards in Surrey, he did rightly 
set them down for his friend Curzon of Croxall, to 
divert him withal, “ seeing that they do fit them- 
selves with a nice and curious aptnesse to the 
praise and picturing of my Overstoke okes, which 
yet are not too big for thy love.” 

The oken walke to my house,” saith Evelyn, 
“was planted about sixty years since ” [and mine 
even likewise, saith Rupert — my grandsire did 
plant it]. “ It is in length about seventy rodde, 
and hath fifty trees of a side. The walke is in 
breadth three rodde and a half, and the trees be 
about twenty-four foot asunder. They do cover 
the whole walke like an arbour, and spredde seven 
rodde and a quarter. Their bodies are but short, 
being topped when they were planted. For their 
heads, few excelling them : many of them, being 
planted by themselves in the parke and hot 
hindered by others, spredde five rodde apiece.” 

Even so the stalwart trees of Overstoke en- 
larged their giant boles, and “ hidden to the 
knees in fern ” did broadly branch and burgeon, 
making a leafy canopy above, and a shady lane 
below, for the honor of the stately house that had 
cuddled in its comfortable bosom the generations 
of the Shustokes. “A house not only ancient, 
but beautiful ; not a mere husk of antiquity, but 
full of reverent and noble associations ; a gray 
and lordly dwelling, rising with almost human 


20 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


dignity from a grassy knoll, with all its pbinted 
gables, and stone-mullioned windows, and tall 
clustered chimneys, slumbering in the mellow 
western light.” A house with a soulful prospect, 
of wood-crowned eminences topped by ancient 
farms, and heathy knolls where pretty cottages 
foregathered ; fair pastures, flecked with cattle 
and sheep, mirrored in the silver surface of the 
mere ; embosomed little homesteads, grouped in 
the farther vale ; the nearer woods of Brignal 
Hurst, where the glancing lines of Giddyburn, — 
in and out, in and out, — showed like a Malay’s 
krees ; and beyond, the twin towers that flanked 
the gate of Flecknoe Castle ; and the penciled 
spires of Ausibel and Yawdley, lifting high their 
aureoled crosses, and singing to the valley, o’ 
Sundays, the winsome songs of Saint Elfrida and 
Saint Maudlin — Melodie nonien geret Magdalene ! 

Settled in the soft repose of its own sur- 
roundings, lulled by the drowsy country hum, 
and fanned by the fragrant motions of the Spring, 
the stately old manor-house takes its afternoon 
nap, careless of the breeze that, slipping in 
through the great door between the jutting 
towers, frisks in the high hall, prying and sniffing 
among carved cornices and portraits, bucklers, 
broadswords and halberds, antlers and dog-whips 
and guns ; or mounting the broad stair that 
winds about a square buttress in the gable, it 
steals upward to the gallery that leads to the 


OVERSTOKE.— SIR MARMADUKE." 


21 


great “ guest-chamber,” and to the smaller dor- 
mitories beyond. 

Once these apartments housed a royal guest, 
when the First Charles, conducted hither by Sir 
William Dugdale, was lodged for a night, while 
he tarried for tidings from his queen, then on her 
march southward from Croxall to Stratford-on- 
Avon. Now the great chamber is a place apart, 
and its precious remains of rich carvings and 
stained glass are consecrated to the coming of 
‘‘ the Lord’s Anointed,” if ever again that may be. 

The tapestried drawing-rooms, reserved for 
rare visits of ceremony, are not otherwise invaded, 
save twice a month, when Mrs. Pennyweight, the 
housekeeper, comes with her maids and mops, 
her brooms and feather dusters, to make a careful 
agitation there; and the historic. banqueting-hall, 
nobly raftered and ornately paneled, with its 
vast embracing fireplace, its mighty tables, its 
profound cupboards and its patriarchal clock, is 
now but a haunt of legend, awsornely echoing to 
the imagination the festal tumult of the good old 
time, when boon companions of the Shustoke 
breed held roaring revel here. 

The morning-room and the Library, on the left 
of the hall as you enter, suffice to accommodate 
the squire’s little household, for all the usual 
requirements of their simple life. These are 
square rooms of generous dimensions, wherein 
the atmosphere of home and soothing accus- 


22 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


tomedness abides, with such harmonious “ fitness 
of things ” that the effect is like the humming of 
a kettle. 

So long have the furniture and the pictures, the 
curtains and the rugs, dwelt together in genteel 
and confidential equanimity, that each has caught 
something of the other’s ways of self-respect and 
family pride ; and all have become endeared to 
each other — so that we can imagine the bereave- 
ment and mute dismay of the rest, if the screen 
should cease to trouble or the bellows breathe 
its last. 

In the Library an old gentleman slept in a 
chair, “ the squire’s chair ” — a deep-seated heir- 
loom of carved mahogany, cushioned in hair- 
cloth. Keyes, the butler, had drawn it in front 
of the bay window, and on a small table beside 
it had placed the dish of tea, the newspaper and 
the pipe ; on the floor, the slippers and the stool. 
Golf, a superannuated fox-hound, almost blind 
now, had settled prone in his appointed place on 
the rug ; and Keyes, having bestowed upon the 
prudent fire of logs a butler’s tender touch, had 
withdrawn with a perfect butler’s perfect manner, 
uncreaking, unwheezing, like a spook. 

For a while the old man sat and mused, con- 
templating the domain of peace and pleasantness 
outspread before him, and embracing in its 
opulent benediction the vivid verdure of the 
lawn, the burnished breastplate of the mere, the 


O VERSTOKE.—^* SIR iMARMAD UKE . ” 


23 


impressive pomp of the grove, the prank and 
prattle of the lonesome rivulet, a happy woodland 
child that hath no playmate but itself. And the 
sweet influences of the place overcame him like 
the pinions of a passing angel ; the spell of the 
spirit’s luxury was upon him, the luxury of 
remembered raptures and sweet regrets and late- 
won resignations — and so he was gently borne 
from “ dwawms ” to dreams. 

A beautiful old man ! and yet not old, say 
rather ripe and mellow, like some fine fruit in 
which the subtle alchemy of the elements and the 
patient processes of the seasons have done their 
perfect work. A “ frosty-pow,” that yet told the 
tale of less than sixty winters, surmounted with its 
silver crown a face of evergreen benevolence, 
where the rose of childhood lingered to hide the 
rust of age ; a beardless, boyish face, signed with 
the family nose, the short and slightly aquiline 
nose of the Shustokes, — as you see it in those por- 
traits there of the three high-sheriffs, Rupert and 
Marmadukeand Ralph; and the lines of pensive 
suavity that imparted a personal quality to the 
inherited refinement of the lips were touched now 
with lighter curves, as though he had taken a 
whimsical thought to sleep with him. But the form, 
compact and vigorous, the attitude, habitual, confi- 
dent and easy, denoted even in repose possibilities 
of energy and self-assertion, and a natural strength 
not yet abated. For the rest, this fine old squire 


24 


AFTER HIS KIND, 


shall be left to disclose himself in his own speech 
and ways, and to make friends with the reader by 
virtue of the gentle and gracious personality he 
is to bring upon the scene. 

And so he slept, and on the hearth the green 
logs sang softly, and Golf with muffled yelp 
hunted in dreams — when, without sound and seem- 
ingly without motion, a girl entered at the half- 
open door, and for a moment paused and contem- 
plated the sleeper. An agreeable apparition : 
tall, slender, swaying; golden-haired, blue-eyed, 
demure ; interesting, even remarkable, yet not 
beautiful ; and though tranquil, troubled ; clad 
in some soft twilight stuff of silver gray, em- 
bellished here and there with a knot of violet 
ribbon ; narrow circlets of lace at her throat and 
wrists, a white rose-bud in her hair. 

For a moment she regarded the sleeping man 
with a smile of pensive tenderness ; then stepping 
noiseless as a fly, moved to a stool somewhat 
behind him, but not too near, and sat there. In 
her hand she bore a pretty basket, containing 
materials for some graceful feminine handiwork ; 
and as she sat she plied her needle listlessly, — 
now sighing, now smiling, now letting her thin 
white hands rest in her basket, while with head 
erect and great blue eyes dilated she gazed into 
vacancy, in reverie bound and discerning the invis- 
ible. 

And still the green logs sang softly, and the 


O VER STOKE. — ‘ ‘ SIR MARMADUKE . ” 25 

embers crackled, and Golf, hunting in dreams, 
panted and sprang with an eager yelp that awoke 
the squire, who rubbed his eyes and stretched 
himself, with a yawn of full content. 

“ Good-morrow, Lazy-boots ! ” said the girl. 

“ Why, my dear, are you there ? How long have 
I slept?" 

Hours and hours. And if Golf had not 
dreamed of catching that same old fox, you’d be 
snoring yet." 

Now, Bab ! you know I never snore." 

“True, dear, you only gurgle — but ’tis not Po- 
llan." 

“ Has Caryl called? " 

“ Caryl never calls ; he manifests his presence. — 
No, neither my Mogul, nor anyone except Boots 
from The Chequers. But Boots brings news. 
Hindman sends him, ‘ with his duty,’ to beg that 
Phyllis may have leave to come to the inn for an 
hour. A stranger by the Ausibel coach has come 
to stay; ‘ from foreign parts,’ says Boots, * young 
and a swell.’ Think of that — a superlative exotic 
in Yawdley ! " • 

“ Some gaping tourist probably, with his guide- 
book, and his tavern manners. But for a pleas- 
ant new fellow, with rousing experiences, fresh 
ideas and crisp talk, with just enough of the gen- 
tleman, and a sea-smell in his clothes — ah ! but 
we’d set the bells a-ringing for him, Bab. — Did 
you send Phyllis ? " 


26 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


“ With my blessing did I, and with certain con- 
fidential instructions besides, not for the ears of 
sleepy squires. — A foreign swell : O joy ! — and to 
stay ; Phyllis is to prepare the best rooms for 
him, the exhausted sybarite in want o^ a nice 
retired grave. And Devil Dick — ” 

Barbara ! ” 

Yes, dear?” 

“ Go look in that glass.” 

'‘And straightway forget? Well, here I am.” 

“ Now say ‘ Devil Dick.’ ” 

“ Not I — it does not suit ; I understand. But 
it fits the man, as naturally as the curling of his 
hair. Well then, Richard Jekyll, gentleman — to 
translate the vernacular of Boots into the classic 
of Barbara — has contrived to get parley with this 
phenomenon, and to-morrow we shall know what 
we shall know. Come to Yawdley to stay — since 
ever the world was! What next? Dick will be 
looking before he leaps, and Caryl will be doing 
something impulsive!” 

“ But you and I, Bab, will have Sir Marmaduke, 
all the same. Light my pipe, lass, and start the 
stout old fellow.” 

Then the squire’s small roar, a little cracked and 
quavering, was joined to the soft fluting of the girl, 
in the after-dinner song of old Marmaduke Shus- 
toke : 


OVERSTOKE.— SIR MARMADUKE.” 


27 


“ Sir Marmaduke was a hearty knight : 

Good man ! Old man ! 

He’s painted standing bolt upright, 

With his hose rolled over his knee. 

His periwig’s as white as chalk, 

And on his fist he holds a hawk ; 

And he looks like the head 
Of an ancient family — 

Of an an-cient fam-i-lee ! 

" He never turned the poor from the gate : 
Good man ! Old man ! 

But was always ready to break the pate 
Of his country’s enemy. 

W'hat knight could do a better thing 
Than serve the poor, and fight for his king ? 
And so may every head 
Of an ancient family — 

Of an an-cient fam-i-lee ! ” 


CHAPTER III. 


WHO ARE YOU ?— PHYLLIS. 

T he Ausibel and Bolingstone coaches had 
come and gone, having exchanged passengers 
with that diurnal reciprocity which represented 
the commercial and social intercourse of the two 
towns ; and The Chequers was left to meditate 
upon the significance and the possible importance 
of the passenger who had been “ set down ” in the 
house and in the books. 

The stranger, as one accustomed to find his 
warmest welcome at an inn, had waited for no 
civilities of reception, but had made himself cheer- 
ily at home, with the jauntiness of a boyish sat- 
isfaction rather than with the complacency of 
patronage. 

He had had his bath and his nap, his chop and 
cheese and tankard ; and now he would have the 
landlord in fora chat. His substantial luggage 
had evoked the oracular approval of Boots, and 
entertained the more deliberate Hindman with the 
professional exercise of “ putting this and that 
together/' to make a case ; so when the bell of the 


WHO ARE YOU?— PHYLLIS, 


29 


private sitting-room rang, the master of the house 
knew what it meant, and answered it in per- 
son. 

“ Are you the landlord of this inn ? ” inquired the 
stranger, with a good-humored abruptness which 
was not lost upon the shrewd fellow before him, 
ever quick to recognize the signs of what he 
termed the “ right sort.” 

At your service, sir. Leastways that is what 
I try to be. It’s not my fault if I look like the 
proper-rioter of a ’otel.” 

“ Who said you did ? ” 

A tuppenny lofty gent as took the Sylcaster 
coach this morning.” 

The stranger laughed merrily. “ What an ass !” 
said he. 

“ Thank’ee, sir! I know’d you’d say it. If I 
might make so bold, you look like it, sir.” 

“H’m?” — and Hindman, catching the strang- 
er’s eye at that moment, was suddenly aware that 
some one had blundered. 

“ Arskin' your pardon, sir,” he said quickly, and 
in a tone of careful deference, “ I mean them was 
my very words, sir: ‘what an ahss ! ’says I ; and 
you look like a gentleman as wouldn’t blame me. 
I hope I know what is due, sir, but I was never 
called that afore.” 

“I should think not. But, for a bold Briton, it 
strikes me you are sensitive; you should laugh at 
that. For example, I was taken for a commercial 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


30 

traveler at Stanhope, and a circus-rider at Ausibel, 
when the fact is I am — neither. What is your 
name ? " 

“Toby, sir, — Toby Hindman at your service.” 

“ Now that is delightful.” 

“ Beg’pardon, sir ? ” 

“ I mean your name. I have always fancied it 
must be pleasant to know a man named Toby : big 
and round, and rosy and comfortable, of course. 
But I have had to come far to find him, at home.” 

He rested upon the last words, in a pause of 
thoughtful silence; then changing briskly, said : 
“ So you think you can make me comfortable here, 
for a month or two, or a year or two ? ” 

“ It might be done, sir. Tm not afeard to say 
it have been done. But then you see, sir, we 
knowed the parties, and we knowed their ways — all 
of us ; me and barmaid and housemaid and cook 
and Boots and hostler, we just lamed ’em by 
heart, so to speak, and let ourselves down to ’em. 
But you, sir, — Lord bless ye ! we don’t even 
know your name, let alone your notions consarn- 
in’ comfort ; and you a foreign gentleman, too.” 

“ Who said so ? ” 

“ Arsking your pardon, sir, you said you had 
‘come far’: Them was your words, if I took 
’em rightly ; though, as for speech, sir, nothing 
could be nativer ; you might have been born in 
this house, sir, if the house might make so bold.” 

“ I might have been born in this place. H’m ! 


WHO ARE YOU?— PHYLLIS. 


31 


about one hundred and sixty-five years ago ; I’ve 
thought of that. — Oh, my name — Mr. John Gray- 
hurst, Toby. American; neither commercial 
traveler nor circus-rider, nor in any other useful 
or ornamental line ; speaking English ‘ like a 
native,’ which is nothing to boast of, my friend ; 
without business here, without acquaintance; 
may take my leave in a month, may remain and 
raise a large family; will try to amuse myself 
meanwhile among the milkmaids and gravestones. 
But about the pretty rooms, are they ready?” 

“ In a short hour, sir, if you’ll excuse us for the 
airing and cleaning. My daughter is over from 
the House to oversee the maids.” 

“ The House?” 

‘‘ Overstoke, the Manor-House, sir. My daugh- 
ter Phyllis, she is Miss Lynn’s own maid — which 
is Squire Shustoke’s niece ; and the young lady 
she is so good as to give my daughter leave to 
watch them trifling hussies of mine, and see as 
they make every thing tidy and snug for you ; for 
Phyllis has a genteel taste of her own, and a 
proper pride ; she knows what a gentleman will 
expect at The Chequers.” 

“ And a gentleman will know what to expect 
from the care and good taste of your daughter. 
You will thank her for me.” 

Hindman bowed and beamed. 

Now ring for Dolly Sparrow, and let me have 
some ale in a toby, and a churchwarden pipe.” 


32 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


** Is it the bar-maid, sir? ” 

“ Certainly. Wonderfully like a sparrow, a 
superior kind of good-looking sparrow ; fresh, 
frisky, pecky, smart, like a sparrow.” 

At that moment enter the Sparrow, bearing a 
card on a small tray; sharp enough she to detect 
something personal in the sudden silence and 
exaggerated gravity of Grayhurst on the one 
hand, and the apoplectic redness of the landlord, 
spluttering in his handkerchief, on the other. 

*‘Toby of ale, please,” said Grayhurst, “and a 
churchwarden. What is this? — for me? Mr. 
Richard Jekyll? Ah, yes ! I remember. Glori- 
ously handsome young fellow in the road — caught 
my cigar-case.” 

The Sparrow blushed irrelevantly, smiled as if 
her mind was wandering, and then became super- 
naturally unconscious and grave. 

“ Landlord, ask the gentleman to do me the 
honor. Show him to this room, please.” 

Master and maid retired, the former returning 
presently to announce “ Mr. Jekyll.” 

Again a strange thing: these two men, meeting 
for the first time, without introduction, without 
favorable report to incline either in good will 
toward the other, now advanced with an identical 
impulse of almost eager cordiality, clasped hands, 
and so stood for a moment in silence, regarding 
each other with smiles of spontaneous kindness. 
Then both said “ Happy to meet you ! ” syllable 


IV//0 ARE YOU?— PHYLLIS. 


33 


with syllable in concert. ’Twas very droll, and 
both laughed ; then each remembered himself, 
retired within himself, became conscious of him- 
self, and felt foolish, taking refuge in a chair. 

“I am John Grayhurst.” 

Jekyll produced the cigar-case, and proffered it 
without a word. 

“You are very good,” said Grayhurst ; “I 
should have been sorry to lose it. It has traveled 
far with me ; and one becomes attached to such 
a personal toy : especially when, as in this instance, 
there is the gift of a pleasant comrade to 
endear it.” 

So saying, he turned the silver box and touched 
the engraved inscription. 

“Yes, I know,” said Jekyll. “ Naturally I must 
have seen that ; and now that you mention it, I 
may confess that one of the names has challenged 
my interest and curiosity.” 

Here there was a brisk tap at the door. Gray- 
hurst cried “ Come in ! ” and Dolly entered, bring- 
ing the “toby” and the pipe. 

“You see,” said Grayhurst, “ though not to the 
manner born, I take kindly to the customs of the 
country, and begin by making friends with toby 
and the churchwarden. But these are your old 
cronies, doubtless, and old cronies are sometimes 
tedious ; perhaps you would prefer wine and a 
cigar.” 

“With your permission,” said Jekyll, “I will 


34 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


try a compromise — toby, for the pleasures of 
memory, and cigar, for the pleasures of hope. 
There is a fragrance as of Cuba in the air.” 

Another toby, my dear,” said the American, 
as he proffered the open box to his guest. 

Stop, Dolly ! ” cried Jekyll. “ Mr. Grayhurst, 
watch this witch, and beware of her ; she is un- 
canny ; she puts potions in her tankards and 
philters in her taps ; she has fatal charms for 
commercial travelers, and wicked spells for simple 
curates. She has conjured me in glass and clay 
and pewter, and she’ll slowly sap your young life. 
If ever she squeezes your hand, scream for help 
and holy water.” 

“Oh! Oh! Mr. Jekyll, sir, if ever! — oh, for 
shame ! and the gentleman a stranger. If you 
please, sir ” (to Grayhurst) “ this, this gentleman 
is — yes, sir, he is only — Devil Dick. There ! ” 

And she bounced out — one part of shame and 
one of indignation to eight parts of flattered 
rapture ; but she sent the toby by the errand-boy. 

The men laughed merrily, and Jekyll said : 

“That girl will amuse you; she is a study in 
the best type of British bar-maid : deep as a 
well and shallow as a saucer, cunning as a poacher 
and correct as a bishop’s housekeeper ; a handy 
bar-maid and an honest creature. But we were 
speaking of the cigar-case, and this name.” 

“Julian Shustoke ? My chum in California, 
where, as you. see, he gave me this for a keepsake. 


Pt^//0 ARE YOU ?— PHYLLIS. 


35 


But how does he interest you ? Surely you cannot 
have met him ? he was never in England/' 

“ Met him ? O ! no ! On the contrary, I am 
surprised to learn of the existence of a Shustoke 
out of England — even beyond the bounds of 
Midlandshire. The name is Saxon, and very old ; 
and, as the patronymic of a family, is supposed to 
be unique. We have never heard of a Shustoke 
whom one of our three parishes could not claim — 
Yawdley or Overstoke or Wynhold.” 

“Then you are of that family?” 

“ By my mother, yes. She was a Miss Shustoke 
of Wynhold. By the by, we have a vague tra- 
dition that some Shustoke of Wynhold or Over- 
stoke emigrated to America, early in the last 
century ; but it is unsupported by any records, 
and is probably no more than an old wives’ tale. I 
have supposed there was never a Shustoke born, 
married, or buried, but has left a name in these 
parish registers, and a local habitation in these 
old churchyards. Your California friend — he was 
not English ? ” 

“ Oh, no ! Western American ; of an old Mary- 
land family originally — that is, old, as Maryland 
families are reckoned, say a century or so ; and in 
that we found a bond of fellowship, for I too am 
of that State, and we Marylanders are famously 
clannish. But we did not need that circumstance 
to seal us as comrades, ‘ for love and luck.’ It 
was a sportive touch of Californian nature that 


3 ^ 


AFTEk HIS KIND. 


made us kin. One day I was crossing the plaza in 
San Francisco (it was in Forty-nine), when an enter- 
prising pioneer from the bar-room of the Parker 
House, overflowing with animal spirits and bad 
rum, took an ineffectual shot at me from behind, 
with his revolver, — ‘ for fun,’ he said. Being very 
drunk (as he afterward explained, lest we should 
imagine him a bad shot), he steadied hirnself, and 
prepared thoughtfully to take another pop ; when, 
before I could discern which humorist was shooting 
at me, another humorist knocked him down, and 
pounded him on the head with his own pistol, until 
the affair displayed no further features of interest, 
except the damaged features of the prostrate 
pioneer. Then the playful agent of Providence 
jumped on his truck, and went off about his busi- 
ness. That was Julian Shustoke.” 

‘‘For an English rustic,” said Jekyll, “ whose 
existence pendulates between the parish priest 
and the county magistrate, and whose most 
thrilling experiences are derived from an occasional 
funeral tempered by sheep-shearing, such an inci- 
dent is inspiring. — But let me understand you. 
You say your friend Shustoke jumped upon — what 
was it ? ” 

“ His truck. He was driving a mule-truck.” 

“ Ah ! then he was not — a gentleman ? ” 

“ The devil he was not ! Why, my dear sir, I 
was working on a lighter myself, for ten dollars a 
day.” 


WHO ARE YOU ?— PHYLLIS, 


37 


And Jekyll, being an Englishman, and at his 
wits’ end, said “ Quite so ! ” and looked pensive. 

Then came a modest tap at the door, and a girl 
entered ; hesitated a moment as if surprised, 
embarrassed ; then with a timid curtsy, murmur- 
ing “ Please excuse me,” would have retreated. 
But Grayhurst rose from his seat, and advancing a 
step, said “ Don’t go. Did you wish to see me? 
I am Mr. Grayhurst.” 

And as he stood, arrested in an attitude of 
instinctive courtesy, astonishment, admiration and 
delight were expressed in all the aspect of the 
man ; for his gaze rested upon a wonder, and the 
wonder was in the beauty of the girl. Such 
beauty is not for intricate dexterities of descrip- 
tion ; rather is it for the heart of the beholder, 
for the imagination of the reader ; not for the 
wordy weavings of the story-teller, who, if he be 
wise, will confess, in confronting the inexpressible, 
the limitations of his art, and forbear to beat the 
air. But that this girl (whose part in the drama 
to be enacted here will appeal to our generous 
emotions) may appear as a form of flesh and 
blood and not a misty phantasm, as a person and 
not a mere voice, I would fain trust my reader to 
construct for himself from the simplest elements 
the ideal Phyllis, who alone can be real to him. 

Her age, twenty ; her stature, not so tall as to 
be important, nor so short as to be trivial ; her 
form, round without redundance, and soft without 


38 


AFTER ms KIND. 


voluptuousness ; her feet and hands, large for a 
princess and small for a peasant ; her complexion, 
fair and blush-tinted : 

“ Blushes that bin 
The burnish of no sin ; ” 

big brown eyes, habitually curtained under droop- 
ing lids, or raised for a moment in shy perplexity 
or appeal ; a glory of red-brown hair, the rare 
“ auburn ” of poets and painters, massed in rich 
shadows or shot with golden lights with every 
movement of the beautiful head ; lips, surpassingly 
lovely in curve and color, but too often pathetic 
and tremulous ; item, two brown eyebrows ; item, 
one white neck — and so on to the end of the 
imbecile inventory. 

The American stood expectant, one hand on 
the back of a chair, the other unconsciously 
advanced, with the slight but gracious movement 
of courtly service. The Englishman sat in a 
posture of exaggerated indifference, his elbow 
planted on the table, his averted face supported 
on- his hand, puffing tumultuous volumes of 
smoke, and watching his home-made cloud with 
the interest of infatuation. 

The girl’s curtsy was for Grayhurst; her timid 
glance for Jekyll ; and the blush that mantled the 
matchless cheek, 

“ A cheek where grows 
More than a morning rose,” 

was for her own sweet foolish fear, 


WHO ARE YOU?— PHYLLIS. 39 

My father bade me say — with his duty, sir — 
that the rooms are ready now, if you please. We 
have tried to make them pleasant, and father 
hopes you will find them so. I fear they are not 
yet so well-aired as they should be, but by to- 
morrow they will be quite sweet.” 

She paused, and Grayhurst said “ Quite sweet ! ” 
There seemed to be nothing else to say 4 yet the 
fine young fellow blushed first, and then smiled 
foolishly. Again the girl glanced at Jekyll, the 
cloud-compelling; he was more rapt than ever. 

No doubt there will be something you would 
like changed, sir,” she said. “ If you will kindly 
let my father know your pleasure, we will try to 
do better.” 

Then she curtsied to Grayhurst, who bowed, 
but did not speak ; and in the door, again she 
inclined the beautiful head, very slightly, and 
with eyes downcast — this time for the Englishman. 

“ So, Phyllis ! ” said Jekyll, moving and speaking 
abruptly, as if now for the first time aware of her 
presence. “ Is Miss Lynn well?” 

“ Quite well, I thank you, Mr. Jekyll.” 

And the squire, did he go to Ausibel to-day ? ” 

“No, sir. He found it was not necessary. 
Kit Abershaw did go to fetch the new Durham 
heifer from Thornleigh ; so the squire sent a letter 
by him.” 

“ Has Miss Blythe called ?” 

“ She had not when I left, sir; but Miss Lynn 


40 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


did speak of going over to Brignal this afternoon. 
She may be there by now.” 

“ Very well, Phyllis ; my respects to Mr. Shus- 
toke,” and with a nod of dismissal he returned 
to his cloud. 

At once the girl retired, pausing only for a 
moment, as if for Grayhurst’s permbsion ; and 
the American, who had remained standing, again 
bowed as she disappeared. 

Grayhurst drew a long breath and sat down. 
Neither spoke for a few minutes. An influence 
stronger than the mere conventional requirements 
seemed to make the men forget that their ac- 
quaintance was an accident of the passing hour. 

Then Jekyll, gazing fondly upon the pearl gray 
ash at the end of his cigar, inquired, Is that the 
American manner?” 

Grayhurst emerged from a brown study : “The 
American manner^ did you say?” 

“ Pray pardon me ; but do American gentlemen 
stand in the presence of their servants, and dismiss 
them with bows?” 

“You have me there,” said Grayhurst ; “and I 
perceive that my ‘manner’ must appear as im- 
possible to an Englishman as your question would 
be to an American. But do you really regard that 
girl as a servant? ” 

“ Daughter of an inn-keeper, companion of a 
bar-maid ; hair-dresser, stay-lacer, and pin-sticker in 
ordinary to a squire’s niece; something higher 


IVJIO ARE YOU?— PHYLLIS. 


41 


than a milkmaid, a little lower than a nursery gov- 
erness.” 

“Mr. Jekyll,” said Grayhurst, looking at his 
watch, “ I find that it is just forty-two minutes since 
I first had the honor to exchange a word with you, 
and that is but short time in which to make up 
one’s mind about a man ; but I should be ashamed 
of myself if I could not discover, in half the time, 
that you have a taste for generous badinage. Yet 
even that were better than to be ashamed of 
Jekyll started bolt upright, and stared at the 
man, who proceeded imperturbably to fill up his 
churchwarden. Then, abruptly seizing his hat, 
the Englishman approached the American, and 
extending his hand, said, “ Good day, Grayhurst ! ” 
Instantly the hands were gripped again, more 
significantly than before. 

“ Why do they call you Devil Dick?” 

“I’ll tell you when you come to my den at 
Wynhold.” 

And he was gone. 


CHAPTER IV. 


BRIGNAL. — LADY GOODLUCK. 

M artin BLYTHE had been dead four years, 
and had left Brignal and all its belongings 
— bin, barn and byre — to his only child, Winifred, 
then in her eighteenth year. He had been wid- 
owed many years, and. save his “ bonnie lass,” 
as he delighted to call her, kith or kin had he 
none. A sterling home-spun character, to whom 
his neighbors were closely drawn in mutual good 
will and “ friendly turns,” Martin belonged to an 
almost extinct class of small squires who farm 
their own land, a class formerly described as 
“little independent gentlemen of £^oo a year, 
whom you shall know by their plain drab or plush 
coats with silver buttons, and their stout breeches 
and boots ; ” men who rarely traveled farther than 
the county town, and then only for the assizes or 
an election ; men who dined once a week with the 
attorneys and justices, went to church regularly, 
studied their weekly journal, settled parochial dis- 
putes in the vestry, and then adjourned to the inn 
to discuss the state of the country over a comfort- 
able tankard. The well-regulated constitutions 


BRIGNAL.—LADY GOODLUCK. 


43 


of these sturdy “ little gentlemen ” took kindly to 
ale and were content with that simple tipple; 
only at Christmas, and Guy Fawkes’ day perhaps, 
were they moved to brew strong punch in gener- 
ous bowls, garnished with toast and nutmeg. 
Then the family pack was produced from the 
corner-cupboard, and they played cards to the 
tune of “ Martin said to his Man,” or “ The Vicar 
of Bray,” sung by the company, with harmonious 
indifference to the exactions of harmony. 

Of such as these was Martin Blythe, and his 
homestead was like unto him : — An ample struct- 
ure of red brick, all overgrown with ivy and 
woodbine ; large casemented bay-windows in the 
front and sides, and attic windows, sharply peaked, 
in the roof. The entrance was by a deep porch, 
embowered in honeysuckle and flanked with 
benches, where Martin had loved to bring his pipe 
in the long twilight and listen to his Winnie’s art- 
less prattle, lapped in his own content and lulled 
by the tinkle of the bickering burn. Overhead, 
supported by the porch, was a sweet snuggery, 
sacred to Winifred, whither she came when her 
household tasks were done, to acquire good man- 
ners and correct conversation in the only fine 
society she knew — her small but gracious company 
of books. The eaves above were garrulous with 
swallows, and from the garden hives came the 
golden bee “ ripened with fire,” to take the honey- 
suckle with carnal violence 


44 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


The porch overlooked a garden, a flowery col- 
ony, planted with knowledge and governed with 
love by the gentle proprietary, to whom that small 
province had been granted by her father when yet 
she was a very little girl ; and hither came the 
footpath through the Hurst that left the bridge 
at the foot of Wynhold Hill and idly took the 
windings of the burn, dallying with daffodils 
and daisies on its homeward way to the little 
green wicket in a privet hedge which formed the 
outpost to Winifred’s domain. 

It was the peculiar charm of the Brignal house 
that it was held in the leafy arms of the Hurst, 
and nursed in fond seclusion. From the porch 
no road was to be seen, no means of access from 
the wrangling world without ; the bosky lane, that 
afforded passage for vehicles from the high-road 
to the house, traversed by a long curve a copse of 
holly on the left, and ended in a plantation of 
lilacs and other flowering shrubs — still screened 
from end to end. On the right, the wanton 
stream of Giddyburn, as it “ gloomed and glanced 
among its skimming swallows,” and babbled as it 
ran, telling the story of its travels to the stones, 
disclosed itself only by the rare flashing of fine 
shafts of sunlight, that pierced its tent of frond- 
age and startled the silvery waterbreaks “ above 
its golden gravel.” 

Between the flower-beds and the burn, a great 
burst of Spring blossoms showed where the fruits 


BRIGNAt.—LAD Y GOODLUCK, 45 

of the orchard and the garden had joined the sev- 
eral colors of their kinds in one opulent festival of 
promise : — the almond, flushing like a giant blush- 
rose among the snow-white petals of the plum ; 
the deep carnation of the peach and nectarine, 
blended with the spotless honors of the cherry 
and the later loveliness of the apple. 

And everywhere the birds, intrepid and jubilant ; 
for Winifred Blythe was such a friend as Emerson 
desires, when he asks, — 

“ Hast thou named all the birds without a gun ? 

Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk } ” 

Hither came the pert and pretty black-cap, to 
pour her tender love-song, not inferior in a certain 
plaintive inwardness to the Autumn song of the 
robin ; the mysterious little grasshopper-lark, 
whispering among the hedgerows ; the redstart, 
piping in the apple trees ; the wren, with her 
golden crown, chirping in the kitchen garden, and 
boldly watching for seeds ; the thrush, come back 
to his familiar birch to sing his sweet old English 
song. And ah ! the nightingale, the tawny- 
throated — 

“ Hark ! from that moonlit cedar what a burst ! 

What triumph I — hark, what pain ! " 

** Lord,” saith Master Walton, “ what music hast 
Thou provided for thy saints in heaven, when 
Thou affordest bad men such melody on earth ! ” 

And this paradise without was justly fitted to 


46 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


the peace within, for Brignal was but another 
name for home. Winifred was proud of its tra- 
ditions, and her household altar burned as of yore 
for the household gods of her grandsire. In the 
wide hall flitches still hung from the stout beams, 
and guns and angling gear still shared the place 
of honor, over the mantel-piece, with their valiant 
seniors, the broadswords, pikes and dirks; for the 
Blythes had done good yeoman-service in their 
time. By the fireside, the big arm-chair with a 
cushion still reposed, and fondly cronied with two 
venerable settles within the chimney corner. Here, 
at Christmas, Martin had hobnob’d with his ten- 
ants, before a roaring blaze, while tale and song 
and jug went round. Fox’s Book of Martyrs 
kept its place in the window, along with the Com- 
plete Justice, Pilgrim’s Progress, and Worthies of 
Midlandshire ; and on the wall, printed large, 
and set in a carved frame, hung Martin’s favorite 
poem, from his father’s favorite poet, Herrick: — 
beginning, 

“ Sweet country life ! to such unknown 
Whose lives are others’, not their own ; 

But serving courts and cities, be 
Less happy, less enjoying thee. 

And so too in the family-room, all was kept 
as in Martin’s time, safe from profane intrusions 
of improvement ; and the homely things of fur- 
niture or ornament, that time and use and love had 
endeared to him, had naught of change to fear 


BRIGNAL.—LAD Y GOODL UCK. 


47 


from the reverent and tender touches of his win- 
some and pious child, who, as she moved among 
them with her careful broom, gave a tear to the 
desk and a kiss to the picture, “ making the action 
fine.” 

But if in this plainer part of the house Wini- 
fred had been but a viceroy or a regent, in the 
parlor, and in the alcove over the porch, she had 
her proper kingdom ; and the tokens of her 
sovereignty were to be seen in the finer and more 
feminine equipments there, in the lightness and 
the softness and the grace, in cunning revela- 
tions of form and texture and color, in books 
that revealed her mind, and pictures that denoted 
her sympathies, and devices of decoration that 
expressed her taste and fancy — in the prettiness 
of useful things and the usefulness of pretty 
things. 

When Martin Blythe lay dying, he called to 
his bedside his lifelong friend, the Squire ; and 
Simon Dudder, his right-hand man, to whom 
every furrow in the farm was as a wrinkle in his 
own face, and every stroke of a sickle as the 
sweat thereof ; and Judith Welcome, such a nurse 
as the mothers of Israel delighted to honor, such 
a nurse as Naomi was aforetime to the babe that 
Ruth bore unto Boaz ; for, like her, Judith had 
carried that child in her bosom — “Ay, hin- 
nie ! an’ th’ mother afore thee,” she would say 
proudly. 


48 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


And these four took loving counsel together 
touching the fortunes of Winifred, as to what 
should be done for her ; and it was agreed among 
them that the bird should not be parted from the 
nest. The Squire would be her earthly provi- 
dence, to guard and guide her ; and Simon would 
hold the farm in hand, with a thrifty grip, that 
Brignal corn and Brignal wool might keep the top 
of the market; and Judith said, “Trusten me, 
maister ; Til be fain to cumber for the child while 
these old bones keep movin’. Thee knows there’s 
nowt but love twixt my bonnie and me ; and 
my whoam’s wi’ her till I mak’ my last bed.” 

So Winifred bided at Brignal, going only to 
Overstoke, to be trained by Barbara’s teachers ; 
and Simon and Judith were with her; thus in all 
respects the current of her life flowed in peace and 
pleasantness, not the less sweet for many tender 
thoughts and furtive tears, sacred to the memory 
of him who slept in Overstoke churchyard. And 
the farmer’s daughter was ennobled by the grace 
of God, expressed in the love and thankfulness of 
three parishes ; and henceforth she was “ Lady 
Goodluck ” in every thatched cottage and hedger’s 
hut. 

“ ’Twixt the gloamin’ and the mirk, when the 
kye come hame,” lowing fondly as they trail 
across the field, and marching to the music of 
the ploughboy’s whistle, — when the bat and the 
owl were abroad, flitting through the glimmering 


BRIGNAL.—LADY GOODLUCK. 


49 


quiet, and even the low whisper of woodland 
springs was heard, as they trickled through their 
leafy channels — in the gloaming, “ Lady Good- 
luck ” sat in the porch and talked to Mutzie, an 
engaging small creature, whose entertaining quali- 
ties were not seriously impaired by the natural 
impediments of four legs and a tail, seeing that 
with the legs she contrived to transact much 
small business, and with the tail to express pathos, 
cajolement, caprice or waggery. A silvery-silken 
skye, with a steel-blue streak in her back, and 
tawny tips to her ears, Mutzie had been a gift 
from Dick Jekyll, when as yet she was but a limp 
and impotent pup. Reared in the confidence of 
Winifred, and shrewdly conscious of her lady- 
ship’s weaknesses and ways, accustomed to be 
addressed in the language of reason, and never to 
be belittled in her own esteem by baby-talk or 
dog-jargon, the creature was an encouraging 
example of development of mind and formation 
of character. 

Mutzie was fond of music, but not indiscrim- 
inately, being quick to discern good from evil, 
and preferring the vocal. She knew all of Wini- 
fred’s songs, and heartily detested several of them 
—such as “ We met ; ’twas in a Crowd,” “ Off, off ! 
said the Stranger,” and other popular inanities of 
that period, wherewith her mistress in dreadful 
sport was wont to make her howl. But she had her 
compensations of rapture, lying thus in her lady’s 


5 ° 


AFTER HJS KIND. 


lap, in the porch in the long twilight, listening to 
the small confidences that were for her ear only, 
and to the^cheerful ditties that she preferred : 
“There was a jolly Miller once Lived on the river 
Dee,” and “ Aye Waukin’ O.” 

“ Feather beds are soft, 

Painted rooms are bonnie ; 

But a kiss o’ my dear love 
Is better far than ony. 

Aye waukin’ O, 

Waukin’ aye, and weary; 

Sleep I can get nane. 

For thinkin’ o’ my dearie.” 

“Judy, dear, are you there?” 

/ “Ay, hinnie! — just haudin’ mysen still, to let 
th’ rest and thankfulness soak in.” 

Within the family-room, before the lamp was 
lighted, the reverend dame sat at the window in 
the deep shadow of the vine, and brooded, gather- 
ing her days together as a hen gathereth her 
chickens under her wings. Her Bible lay in her 
lap, and her spectacles on the Bible. 

“ And well soaked you must be, and running 
over at the eyes ; for I know you are crying, you 
moist old thing! ” 

“ Happen I be, child, happen I be ; but 'tis e’en 
for th’ comfort o’t. ‘Tears and prayers are 
Memory’s heirs,’ thee’st know.” 

“Yes, dear ; I know. There’s a kiss for you — 
catch it. And I’ll send for that bad boy of yours 


BRIGNAL. —LADY GOODL UCK. 5 1 

to bring you some of his, the wild kind that you 
like best.” 

“ Ah ! the bonnie lad ! Thee munri^ call him 
bad, child, tho’ ’tis nobbut thy pretty way. The 
wild kind be the sweetest — honey or human hearts. 
Tis th’ owd eyes, th’ eyes o’ a owd woman that 
ha’ suckled boys and buried ’em, that sees deepe.st 
and keene.st into th’ insides o’ a young man. But 
what’s come to Maister Dick ? ’Tis days an’ days, 
an’ no sight nor soun’ o’ him. Yon’s na the lad 
to bide away for nowt from them that loves him. 
What dosto think? I doubt he’s gone tearin’.” 

Oh, no ! have you not heard ? Did not 
Christie Breme tell you ? She was at the inn 
yesterday. Dick has found an object of interest : 
a stranger, who has come to The Chequers to 
remain for a time — for what, I should like to know ? 
‘ A gentleman,’ says Hindman, because he has 
taken the best rooms ; ‘ handsome and superior,’ 

says Dolly, who thinks she knows, being worldly- 
wise ; ‘ a man,’ says Dick, ‘ with a head full of 
news and a heart full of pluck — a Man, and not a 
mere thing with boxes.’ Christie brought me a 
note from him. The Man is an American, and 
Dick would like to bring him here.” 

“ Oh, but mysen. I’d be main joyful to see him ! 
An American, ye sayn ? ” 

“ An American — from California, where the 
ground is gold, you know. But Judy dear, what 
can he be to you ? ” 


52 


AFTER HIS HIND. 


“ Dost na see, child ? If he’s American, happen 
he may know our folks, o’ somehows.” 

“Our folks? I do not understand. We Blythes 
have no kin in America, that ever I heard.” 

“ Shustokes, child, Shustokes ! Hanna I kept 
in my poor yed what my grannie used to tell 
when I was but a bit lass? as how, in owd Squire 
Rupert’s time, a Shustoke of Wynhold took 
shipping and sailed the high seas, he and the rest 
o’ th’ brisk young bloods^ for America, — to fight 
the red men, my grannie said, and tak’ their 
lands. And in Squire Ralph’s time, (that was the 
third high-sheriff, thee’st know,) cam’ tidings o’ 
rich Shustokes in they parts — fine gentlemen and 
leddies, with proper sons and da’ters. Ay ! I’m 
told ’tis a throng place now ; but it canna be so 
crowdy niverbut the Shustokes mun mak’ theirsen 
heard and seen — such a rare owd stock and 
comely! I doubt Maister Dick’s new friend will 
be knowin’ a Shustoke, wheriver he may see one 
— so main handy as they be, they Americans.” 


CHAPTER V. 


STRAY LINKS. 

B etween Grayhurst and Jekyll mutual pre- 
possession had become mutual attraction, and 
since their first interview at The Chequers the men 
had been much together. The hospitable atten- 
tions of the generous young Englishman were 
accepted by the American with hearty frankness, 
but without fuss. Together, in the saddle, they 
had made the circuit of the three parishes — Jekyll 
an entertaining but audacious guide, and Gray- 
hurst an eager and amused observer. 

Returning from one of these excursions, by the 
bridle-path that traversed Flecknoe Park, between 
the castle and the highway, the friends had fallen 
a-thinking, and for a while walked their horses in 
silence, each busy with conjectures suggested by 
his interest in the other; when Jekyll abruptly 
broke the spell with a question whose very blunt- 
ness was its own excuse, for there was the soul of 
good-will in the ring of it : 

‘‘ Grayhurst, what brought you here ? ” 

The American laughed : “ Steam, horse-power, 
and a hobby.” 


54 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


^ “ Good Lord ! ” exclaimed Jekyll — from a life 

• of explosive surprises, to a coma of monotony ; 
from a crowd, where the oldest thing is yesterday’s 
newspaper, to a cloister, where the newest thing is 
a new-laid egg.” ^ 

“That is only a clever definition for my hobby, 
which is a steadfast faith in the extremes of 
change, as an intellectual and moral alterative : 
for instance, from the war-whoop to the shepherd’s 
pipe ; from gristly steaks at a dollar a pound, to a 
new-laid egg for a ha’penny. And vice versa for 
such cases as yours ; you should start for Califor- 
. nia.” 

“ I will. I might escape by swimming some 
dark and stormy night. You asked why I am 
called Devil Dick ; because I have made myself a 
terror to the whole country-side, just to keep 
awake ; and often I am tempted to set fire to 
Wynhold Chapel, to try ‘ how it would seem ’ as 
you say. Whom did you murder? Excuse my 
mentioning it ; and don’t mind me, for I have 
slain many ‘ in a figure ’ — mostly parsons and 
dowagers. You do not look tragic, or even sinis- 
ter, but I have no better theory to account for your 
taking sanctuary in a road-side hostelry, between 
a toll-gate and a churchyard.” 

The American, drawing from his pocket a small 
note-book, waited for a full stop in Jekyll’s banter, 
and then read : 

Randal Marmaduke Shustoke^ Esq., is a mag- 


STRAY LINKS. 


55 


istrate for Midlandshire, and Lord of the Manor 
of Overstoke, near Yawdley. Resides at Over-* 
stoke House. The lands of Overstoke were 
awarded at the Conquest ” 

‘‘You area queer fellow, Grayhurst,” Jekyll in- 
terrupted. “ What is all that stuff to you ? and 
how did you come by it ? Probably from some 
book-making Paul Pry, who ‘ hopes he don’t 
intrude’ in County Families.” 

“ If it had been my blessed birthright and boon,” 
said Grayhurst, “to first see the light in this tight 
little island, I should be sure to respond to your 
happy conjecture with the regular ‘quite so!’. 
Do you remember telling me, in our first talk at 
The Chequers, of some Shustoke of Wynhold or 
Overstoke who is supposed to have emigrated to 
America early in the last century? ” 

Jekyll assented with a nod, and became atten- 
tive. 

“ But you were inclined to reject the story, 
as a vague tradition and ‘ an old wives’ tale,’ ” 
continued the American. 

“ Why not ? I said there were no records.” 

“ Indeed ! what better record would you have 
than an old wives’ tale? I have apretty taste for 
this line of history, and when I was a boy I loved 
to climb our family-tree.” 

“It was a childish ignorance,” said Jekyll, “but 
now ’tis little joy, to know you are farther off 
from heaven than when you were a boy.” 


56 


AFTER HIS KIND, 


“ Perhaps; but it is something to have found 
•and held fast a faith in old wives’ tales. Old wives 
are the only trusty, because the only loving and 
jealous chroniclers ; the tales which they make 
their business they take to their bosoms ; they are 
intimate pursuivants, and heralds in homespun ; 
they proclaim with cupboard drums and nursery 
trumpets matters that should be hushed up in the 
family. A whisper transmitted through many gen- 
erations of old wives becomes history, of import as 
awful as a blast from the Recording Angel.” 

“ All very fine, my boy ; but your sketch sug- 
gests horrible possibilities. For example, that at 
the call of the Last Trump all the old wives in 
England may arise in a body, and immediately 
begin to tell all they know. Why, the innumer- 
able multitude of aristocracy and gentry will with 
one consent retire shuddering to their holes. But 
where did you acquire your profound knowledge 
of the subject? Surely, with your new social 
machinery, you do not produce old wives in 
Am„erica.” 

“ Abundantly ; and we are indebted to them 
for all that we have of genealogy, and that pecu- 
liar system of arboriculture which applies itself to 
the rearing of family-trees. When Julian Shus- 
toke had long delved and grubbed in vain among 
his meagre archives in Maryland for some traces 
of his English progenitors, it was a venerable 
gossip, I am told, who uncovered for him the 


STJ^AY LINKS. 


57 


root of the matter, which had long Iain hidden 
(where old wives usually keep such things), 
between the leaves of a ghostly Bible. Here it 
is, as I took it down from Julian’s memory;” and 
turning the leaves of his note-book, Grayhurst 
read : 

Randal Shustoke of Overstoke, Yawdley, 
married Mary, daughter of Geoffrey Meriden of 
Yawdley, who died about the year 1640.” 

In the name of all the Kings-at-arms ! ” 
exclaimed Jekyll. “Why then there must have 
been ” 

“Another old wives’ tale? Yes; your Ameri- 
can namesakes have long had one, more 
definite than yours, and accepted wdth more 
becoming reverence. They say,— which is our 
favorite formula for dodging the responsibility in 
meddling vaguely with our neighbors’ concerns — 
‘they do say’ that in the year 1715 one Richard 
Shustoke of Wynhold founded a family in Mary- 
land, which has since had important ramifications, 
has produced several personages more or less use- 
ful to their descendants, and barring an occa- 
sional prodigal, scapegrace or — ” 

“ Devil Dick,” suggested Jekyll ; “ no good old 
family is complete without a Devil Dick.” 

The American turned upon his companion with 
a startled, inquisitive glance. 

“ What’s the matter? ” said Jekyll. “Do you 
object to the D. D. ? ” 


S8 


AFTER HIS KIHD. 


“ By no means. You remind me that there 
was a clergyman, that’s all.” 

Jekyll shouted with laughter ; then said, But 
I beg your pardon ; you were apologizing for the 
usual incorrigibles.” 

“ Yes, I was about to remark that, with the 
exception of one or two of those exciting but 
attractive erratics, the Shustokes of Maryland 
have been all right, from the original Richard 
to the latter Julian.” 

And where is your Julian now? ” 

“ In San Francisco probably, where I left him 
six months since. You see, I had feebly failed to 
adjust my pampered frame to the salutary rigidi- 
ties of soft planks, and had conceived a longing 
for the more plastic embraces of a feather bed ; 
so I put three water-lots, an iron warehou:se and 
a steamboat, in my pocket, and sailed for England, 
by way of Honolulu and Hong-Kong, Singapore 
and Bombay. In parting from my friend at the 
ship’s gangway, I promised him that if ever I set 
foot in Merrie England I would straightway go a 
Shustoke-hunting ; and straightway I forgot, of 
course. One day, as I sat in the ‘ commercial ’ 
room of my hotel in London, wondering what I 
should do next — heads Paris, tails Killarney, you 
know — my hand fell heedlessly upon a book, a 
most forlorn, deject and wretched book. It was 
Somebody’s “ County Families of the United 
Kingdom ; ” and as I idly turned the leaves my 


STI?A y LINKS. 


59 


eye fell upon the word Shustoke — ‘ Randal Mar- 
maduke Shustoke,’ and the rest as I have copied 
it here. Then I remembered Julian, and my 
promise, and here I am.” 

Naturally,” said Jekyll ; “ but what a . startling 
chance ! ” 

Startling enough, but no ' chance ’ ; the word 
may be handy for such occasions, but the thing 
does not exist.” 

‘‘ What do you mean ? That the circumstance 
was supernaturally arranged?” 

“ Possibly. Certainly that I was booked for 
this station, and appointed to this business, before 
I was born.” 

“ How am I to take that ? As a bee in your 
personal bonnet; or as an expression of the 
national mind ? Is the average Yankee a compla- 
cent mystic ? ” 

“Say rather, the most logically sentimental, the 
most practically romantic, of the children of men. 
I have known an American adventurer to waste 
more poetry in his game of life than would suffice 
to equip an English laureate and set him up for 
the peerage here and the abbey hereafter.” 

“ Grayhurst, you are a boon. Whether freak 
or fatalism brought yo^i hither is nothing to me ; 
all the same, I embrace you as a boon ; for I dis- 
cover in you important possibilities of fun. Here- 
abouts there are dry bones to stir ; and we will 
begin with the Vicar.” 


6o 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


** Who is the Vicar?” 

Ourbeneficed jester, who once a week rattles 
husks in a sermon, as of old an honester fool rat- 
tled beans in a bladder. But you shall see.” 

“ The Mr. Thorpe, I suppose;” said Grayhurst, 
“ of whom I have heard at The Chequers.” 

The Reverend Caryl Ethelred Thorpe : that is 
his imposing patronynic. And if you have heard 
his name at the inn, it was probably coupled with 
that of Miss Lynn, the Squire’s niece, and 
remotely a cousin of mine — an enigmatical dam- 
sel, always interesting, often agreeable, and some- 
times (deliberately) neither — who seems to have 
assigned herself to this praying-mantis in a 
perfunctory, this-sort-of-thing-you-know fashion, 
only possible to an English girl who hath a 
devil.” 

A serious engagement, do you mean ? ” 

“ I have never observed any playful features.” 
“ Ah ! I see. But these are family matters, and 
you seem to be taking me into your confidence,” 

As you like,” said Jekyll. 

*‘I do not object ; it is your affair. But to this 
match you do object. Are you disinterested ? ” 
^Mn the sentimental sense? Oh, yes! ’’said 
Jekyll, and his laugh was genuine. “ But on the 
score of compatibility, you know.” 

“So prudent? I should not have imagined 
that ; but very proper no doubt. Is the young 
lady under any mysterious pressure ? ” 


SmA V LINKS. 


6l 


“ Barbara ? Not she. The dear old Squire 
would decline with thanks a lord-chancellor 
or a field-marshal, if Bab objected to the shade of 
his wig." 

“ A spell perhaps — something in the super- 
natural line — mesmerism, electro-biology, fascin- 
ation — eh ? " 

“ So likely ! Come with me to Overstoke to- 
morrow, and you shall see the pair together. 
After that you shall tell m ‘ how long it would 
probably take the stone cat on a lodge-gate to 
charm a live bullfinch in the hedge." 

“ And you would introduce me at Overstoke ? 
By whose leave ? " 

“ Your own — what more?" 

A stranger of the deepest dye, without letters 
of introduction ! ” 

‘‘Tickets for soup? No, thanks! The tradi- 
tions of Overstoke are superior to those perfidious 
parallelograms. For three hundred years and 
longer the hospitality of the Shustokes has had a 
mind and a heart of its own, and has taken the 
consequences. If ever you knew an American 
Shustoke, with an honest hankering for his breed 
in Midlandshire, you shall be as welcome to Squire 
Randal as the flowers of May. In fact, those pro- 
verbial vegetables would probably feel slighted, in 
comparing their reception with yours." 

“ All right ! " said the American. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE AMERICAN AT OVERSTOKE. 

HEN Jekyll promised Grayhurst a cordial 



VV welcome at Overstoke, he had not reckoned 
without his host. No one knew better than he 
the generous and genial nature of the Squire, and 
the large liberty of his hospitality, his handsome 
and gracious assertion of a family pride conspicu- 
ous by its very simplicity, scorning ostentation, 
and superior to any patronage save kindness — a 
pride, to which arrogance was as impossible as 
servility. Once, when the reverend prig whose 
acquaintance we shall make presently ventured 
/; to remonstrate with him on the score of his 
indulgent rule in his household, saying “ At times 
I fear, my dear sir, that you quite forget what is 
due to yourself,” the Squire replied with a cun- 
ning twinkle in his eye, “ I hope I generally do, 
Caryl. Perhaps that is why no one else ever for- 
gets what is due to me.” 

In the American, the Squire found a double 
charm : the fascination of a new type, disclosing 
a startling and formidable development of civil- 
ization ; and the confirmation of an old faith and 


THE AMERICAN AT OILERS TONE. 


63 


fealty, by the revelation of transplanted scions of 
an ancient and honorable stock. As Grayhurst, 
exhilarated by the eager curiosity of his audience, 
kept his shuttlecock of talk flying between these 
two themes, the imagination of the Squire was 
tossed in a turmoil of astonishment, admiration, 
amusement and consternation ; and his interest 
as a county magistrate in the summary exploits 
of a Vigilance Committee was abruptly displaced 
by his sense of humor in contemplating, as the 
head of a decorous old family, the spectacle of a 
Shustoke engaged in the manipulation of mules. 

When the talk returned to England and Over- 
stoke, Barbara, who had been a silent but rapt 
listener, took the American’s arm, with a movement 
of demure friendliness, and led him from the 
Library to the piazza, to explain the situation of 
the manor, and to entertain him with such points 
of interest as were to be seen from the house. 

Then the Squire heartily thanked his young 
kinsman for bringing the stranger to Overstoke : 

“A suprising fellow, Dick! A stirring fellow! 
romantic and practical, pathetic and droll, and 
always picturesque. Plainly a gentleman, too ; 
I think he will do us credit.” 

“As to that,” said Jekyll, “I dare say he 
would spurn our conventional conception of a 
gentleman. For example, Thorpe is a gentleman 
— by courtesy. I am a gentleman — so described 
technically by my solicitor. You are a gentleman 


64 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


— by the grace of God. The rest are all Thorpes or 
Jekylls. But I doubt if this American ever stops 
to think whether he is the one or the other. I 
doubt if he would find it worth his while to knock 
down a cad for calling him ‘no gentleman.’ The 
man is just a Man, superlatively developed; and 
if that is an ordinary product of the soil and air 
and diet of ‘ the diggins ’ — if I can learn manners 
from the muzzle of a six-shooter, and respect for 
the rights of others from a deck of cards — for 
heaven’s sake, Squire, ship me for California with 
a pick-axe and your prayers.” 

But when Barbara had decoyed Grayhurst 
beyond the hall-door, she dropped the subject 
they had left behind them in the Library, and did 
not take up the subject that had brought them to 
the piazza. It was not for the topography of 
Overstoke that she had contrived her small 
exploit of artifice. 

“ Let us leave those two,” she said, “ in Cali- 
fornia, whither you can spirit them at your pleas- 
ure. When we want them, I can call them back 
with an old song. But I belong here^ among these 
cows and sheep, and other peasantry ; and I shall 
be pleased to introduce you to my set.” 

“ And why not ? since I have come so far to 
find you, and all that you stand for — your idyls 
and your ditties and your country charms. We 
young Grayhursts had a nurse who was rich in 
them, and 1 was her heir : 


THE AMERICAN AT O VERS TONE. 65 

“ Burnie bee, burnie bee ! 

Tell me when your wedding be. 

If it be to-morrow day, 

Take your wings and fly away. 

You see I know them 

“ Lady bird, lady bird ! fly away home ; 

Thy house is a-fire, thy children all roam : 

All but little Nan, that sits in her pan. 

Weaving gold laces as fast as she can.” 

“ Do you know the Mulberry Bush ? ” 

“ What ! not ‘ Here we go round’ — So?” and 
taking his hands, the girl circled with him play- 
fully% as they chanted together : 

“ Here we go round the mulberry bush. 

The mulberry bush, the mulberry bush ; 

Here we go round the mulberry bush. 

So early in the morning.” 

^‘This is delightful,” said Grayhurst ; “once 
more, please. It is so long since I have seen it done 
in primitive style. You see we Forty-niners had 
not the scenery or the music or ” 

“ Or the surprising dramatic powers of Miss 
Lynn, I dare say. Quite a revelation of artless- 
ness and grace ! My intrusion is unfortunate. 
Shall I find your uncle in the Library, Barbara?” 

“ I think so.” 

“ May I have your company? ” 

“/have company.” 

And the performers of the Mulberry Bush stood 
holding each other’s hand, and regarding — she with 


66 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


defiance, he with amusement — the man who had 
spoiled their pretty childish sport, coming upon 
them without warning, from some side-entrance : a 
detestably good-looking person, whose supercilious 
respectability, and faultless impertinence of atti- 
tude and tone, at once commended him to the 
interest of any gentleman who had ever played at 
foot-ball. As he turned to retire, he met the 
American's glance of good-humor with the 
“stony stare” which is in the British Code for 
such occasions ; and yet he paused, as if expect- 
ing an introduction ; but Barbara’s regard at that 
moment was directed to the distant landscape, 
her aspect was sublimely inane ; so the stony stare 
dissolved in space, as the inflexible form retreated. 

Then to Grayhurst’s questioning smile the girl 
responded : 

“ That’s our vicar, the Reverend Caryl Thorpe.” 

“So I imagined. I had heard of him.” 

“Indeed! From whom?” 

The American hesitated. 

“From Dick? Mr. Jekyll, perhaps?” 

“ Probably; in fact it was Jekyll. He spoke of 
the beauty of Overstoke church, and naturally 
mentioned the Vicar. Oxford man, I believe.” 

“ Oh I ” and Barbara laughed, thoughtfully. 
“Yes, Dick does admire the church. But shall 
we rejoin them in the Library? You must be 
introduced to Mr. Thorpe.” 

“ Must I?” 


THE A MERIC A H AT O VERSTOKE. 6 7 

The girl stared ; '' Surely not, Mr. Grayhurst, if 
you object.” 

“Not I ; only too happy. But you ? I fancied 
the objection was on your side, since you debarred 
me from that cordial greeting which the Vicar 
seemed so eager to bestow.” 

Barbara winced and looked troubled, then 
brightened as she interpreted the smile of her 
companion : 

“ Ah ! you are teasing,” she said. “ Caryl was 
not eligible for introduction at that juncture. 
Besides, L was unwilling to encroach upon the 
dear Squire’s domain ; in this old-fashioned house 
it is his privilege to distribute the peculiar honors ; 
and he is never more stately than when impress- 
ing the Vicar with a sense of the honor conferred 
upon him.” 

Grayhurst permitted the veiled flattery to pass 
without recognition ; but as they moved toward 
the Library he made a mental note of it : “ Adroit 
and courtly ! This girl has cleverness and charac- 
ter; and she sharpens her wits on her intimate 
enemy. A case of pedigree : somebody has eaten 
sour grapes, and the teeth of My Lady are set on 
edge.” 

As they entered the room, sounds of animated 
discussion, audible a moment before, suddenly 
ceased, and an awkward silence befell. But the 
Squire and Jekyll rose to receive them, while the 
Vicar, who had been standing near the door, re- 


68 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


treated a step or two, with a certain air of care- 
ful carelessness. It was plain that the Squire 
had not been informed of th6 encounter in the 
piazza. 

“ Well, sir ! ” he said, “ I trust the outlook 
pleased you. It is true Midland landscape that 
we have here ; tame enough to traveled eyes, I 
imagine, but not without a charm of its own, 
which familiarity will disclose to you — a charm 
expressly English.’' 

“ And one,” said Grayhurst, “ that the vexed 
American is peculiarly prepared to enjoy — the 
charm of rest.” 

“ It is gratifying to learn that its tameness is 
not shocking,” said Thorpe, sententiously. 

“ Ah ! Thorpe,” said the Squire, “ let me present 
you to Mr. Grayhurst, Richard’s friend — and 
mine.” 

Thorpe had heard of the American, of “ Jekyll’s 
infatuation and Shustoke’s weakness,” and his 
comprehensive disapproval was expressed in his 
salutation, if that term may be applied to the^ 
rigid flexure of his spinal hinge. 

“ Thorpe is our vicar ; he scolds us all the week, 
and cajoles us on Sunday. We are apt to forget 
what a pleasant fellow the Vicar can be, until we 
face him from the pews. Then we are conscious 
of ” 

“ The charm of rest,” said Jekyll. 

“True!” said Thorpe, “it is my privilege to 


THE AMERICAN AT O VERSTOKE. 69 

administer to Mr. Jekyll, once a week, the relief of 
nature’s sweet restorer for his notorious and incor- 
rigible insomnia.” 

Dullness was not one of the Vicar’s weak points, 
and this allusion (unintelligible to Grayhurst) to 
certain nocturnal escapades of Devil Dick, was 
merrily applauded by that bold delinquent. 

“ I have read,” said Grayhurst, “ of a graceless 
youth who slept while Paul was preaching. There 
may be consolation for the Vicar in the reflection 
that that other young fellow broke his neck ; 
although it has struck me as rather hard on the 
lad, seeing that Paul, by his own confession, was 
‘ long preaching.’ ” 

‘‘ Have done with your nonsense, you boys !” the 
Squire interposed, “ I am interested in Mr. Gray- 
hurst’s remark, that the repose of our English 
landscape has peculiar attractions for Americans 
— least expected, and yet most natural, I imagine, 
to a striving, impatient people, to whom rest must 
be a costly luxury. But the thought is not new 
to me; I have read Washington Irving.” 

Prince of intellectual loafers ! ” said Gray- 
hurst. 

Beg pardon ! ” (from the Vicar) ; I did not 
catch the word.” 

“ Loafer, Mr. Thorpe ; the verb is * to loaf,’ a 
vocable we invented to express one of the bland- 
ishments of life — to escape from the racket into 
the rest — something akin to ‘ dawdle,’ but nobler,” 


70 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


Barbara laughed : Is it my native tongue that 
I hear? ” 

‘^And are these,” said Jekyll, “the emotions 
and aspirations of the gentle filibuster? Now, 
from our more mundane point of view the repose 
of our English landscape does not present itself 
in a light so rosy. There are times when it may 
be said to bore us — when by the long contem- 
plation of it we are wrought to moody madness, 
and would find relief in crime.” 

“ Oh ! let him rave, Mr. Grayhurst,” said Bar- 
bara ; “ I understand you. It was not the Cali- 
fornian’s idea of repose that Lucy Ashton sang of : 

Look thou not on Beauty’s charming ; 

Sit thou still when kings are arming ; 

■ Taste not when the wine-cup glistens ; 

Speak not when the people listens ; 

Stop thine ear against the singer ; 

From the red gold keep thy finger. 

Vacant heart and hand and eye 

Easy live and quiet die.” 

And as she delivered the lines in low tones, only 
the American detected the tremor in her voice 
and the flash in her eyes. 

Jekyll made an impatient movement. “Bar- 
bara,” said he, “ I think you find a fiendish joy in 
those exasperating couplets. I hate them ; they 
make a man feel like a goose-girl or a lap-dog.” 

Grayhurst, who had not withdrawn his gaze 
from the face of the girl, now thought he dis- 


THE AMERICAN A T OVERS TONE. 


V 


covered a look of trouble there. She clasped her 
hands, her lips trembled and were parted, and 
she moved a step toward Jekyll, but held her 
peace. The American remembered Jekyll’s enig- 
matical phrase in Flecknoe Park, “an English 
girl who hath a devil.’' Then he glanced at the 
Vicar, who was apparently unconscious at that 
moment of aught in this life more worthy of a 
moralist’s contemplation than the superlative pro- 
priety of a well-trained butler’s style ; for Keyes 
had entered, bearing decanters. 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE squire’s psalm. — AT THE LODGE. 

SlVTOW, Mr. Gray hurst,” said the Squire, wc 
IM will pledge you an Overstoke welcome, 
and my Bab shall celebrate the occasion with a 
song.” 

Presently,” said Barbara; ** I know my place. 
This is the Squire’s hour, Mr. Grayhurst, and 
Viniim Letificat is his noble psalm for great 
occasions. Insist upon Vinum Letificat ; and if he 
pretends he cannot sing, appeal to me.” 

“ A most ancient song, sir,” said the Squire ; “ a 
song so old that even an old man’s cracked pipe 
cannot spoil it. So : — 

“ There is no tree that grow 
On earth, that I do know, 

More worthy praise, I trow, 

Than is the Vine. 

Whose grapes, as ye may rede. 

Their liquor forth do shede. 

Whereof is made, indeed. 

All our good wine. 

And Wine, ye may trust me, 


THE SQ UIRE'S PSALM.— A T THE LODGE. 73 


Causeth men for to be 
Merrie, for so ye see 
His nature is. 

Then put aside all wrath. 

For David showed us hath, 

Vinum letificat 

Cor Hominis. 

“ How bring ye that to pass ? 

Cordis Jticu7iditas 
Is now and ever was 

The life of man. 

Since that Mirth hath no peer. 

Then let us make good cheer, 

And be ye merrie here, 

Whiles that ye can. 

And drink well of this wine, 

Whiles it is good and fine, 

And show some outward sign 
Of joy and bliss. 

Expel from you all wrath. 

For David showed us hath, 

Vinum letificat 

Cor Ho7ninisfi 

The American, who had already been strangely 
taken by the sober and respectful demeanor of 
the others, now v/ondered to see Barbara take 
from the salver a morsel of bread, and lay it 
before the Squire, who let fall upon it a few drops 
of wine ; and then sang on : 


Now ye that be present. 
Praise God Omnipotent, 


74 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


That hath us given and sent 
Our daily food. 

When thorow sin we're slaine, 

He sent His Son ag'aine, 

Us to redeem from paine 

By His sweet blood. 

And He is the true Vine, 

From whom distilled the wine 
That bought your souls and mine — 

Ye know well this. 

Then put aside all wrath ; 

For David showed us hath, 

Vinum letificat 

Cor Hominis." 

’Twas a quaintly sweet performance, impressive 
by its very simplicity. At the close, Grayhurst 
remained silent. 

‘‘ I knew you would like it,” said Barbara. 

“ But he has not said so, my dear.” 

“ No, uncle ; if he had, we might not be so sure 
of his liking; any one might ‘ say so.’ ” 

“ Thank you ! ” said Grayhurst, simply. How 
did you come by this rare old chant ? ” 

“ My great-grandfather, Rupert, found it in a 
Cotton MS., and made the air for it. His son, 
Marmaduke, transmitted it through my father to 
me ; and so it has been set up in the Shustoke 
ritual. We call it the ^ Squire’s Psalm.’ ” 

“But of what does it remind me?” said Gray- 
hurst. “ Ah ! I remember. Erskine’s Song of 
Tobacco ; 


THE SQ UIRE'S PSA LM.—A T THE LODGE. 7 5 


“ Was this small plant for thee cut down ? 

So was the plant of Great Renown, 

Which Mercy sends 
For nobler ends : 

Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 

“ Doth juice medicinal proceed 
From such a naughty foreign weed ? 

Then what’s the power 
Of Jesse’s flower? 

Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 

‘‘They fit well together, but I like best the 
Squire’s Psalm. The other is ingenious ; this is 
ingenuous ; the other is artificial, this is artless.” 

TuORFE{aszde to Jekyll) : “ Good criticism, for 
a Yankee.” 

JeKYLL {aside to Thorpe) : “Bad manners, for a 
vicar.” And perceiving that Grayhurst had 
detected or suspected this by-play, he continued, 
“ Thorpe objects to the vintner trespassing on 
the vicar’s ground.” 

“ When the publican begins to preach,” said 
Thorpe — 

“ The pharisee may begin to throw stones,” said 
Jekyll. 

“Barbara, give us ‘Tibbie Towler,’ please.” 

“ But Caryl disapproves. He calls it a bar- 
maid’s lilt.” 

“ Now what an unreasonable kill-joy you are, 
Thorpe ! — such a nice spiteful song. Squire, 
what’s your opinion of ‘Tibbie Towler ? ’ ” 


76 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


Capital song, capital ! Rich in the pungent 
Scotch humor.” 

Conflict of Church and State ! ” said Jekyll — 
“the justice against the vicar. Let this free 
citizen of the world decide. Sing it for Grayhurst, 
Barbara. Shall I fetch the harp?” 

“ Bar-maid and harp ? Oh, no ! That would 
spoil both. You may whistle, if you like.” 

And without moving from her place, she sang 
with a pretty reluctant pertness : 



Tib-bie Tow-ler o’ the glen, There’s ower mon-y 


r 



M'oo - in’ at her ; 

; Tibbie Towler 

o’ the glen, There's 

^ ?-1 



ower mon - y v 

,’0o - in’ at her. 

y y J 

Woo - in’ at her. 


- i 


p- 


j 

J J P 

^ ^ ^ 


s 

' ^ # J 




y y ^ 

IT - 


pu’ - in’ at her, Courtin’ at her. can - na get her. 


h - *— 1 



s: : — 

- -J M 1 

r I 

F# b 


1 ' N. 

.... in — 

w • n 

' 1 \^ \ 

III * 1 


n 

r* ^ 

t ^-1 



-=# # 

! w 


Sil - ly elf, it’s for her pelf, That a’ the lads are 



woo - in’ at her. 




THE SQ LITRE' SPSALM.^A T THE LODGE. 7 7 


" Ten cam east, and ten cam west ; 

Ten cam rowin’ o’er the water; 

Twa cam down the lang dyke-side — 
There’s twa and thretty wooin’ at her. 
Wooin’ at her, etc. 

There’s seven butt, and seven ben, 

Seven in the pantry wi’ her. 

Twenty head about the door, — 

There’s ane-and-forty wooin’ at her. 

“ She sits a queen amang them a’ ; 

Ilka chiel expects to get her. 

Gin she but let her thimble fa’, 

The’re like to knock their heads together. 

“ She’s got pendles in her lugs — 

Cockle shells wad suit her better; 

High heel’d shoon and siller tags ; 

And a’ the lads are wooin’ at her. 

“ Be a lassie ne’er sae black. 

Gin she hae the name o’ siller. 

Set her up on Tintock tap. 

The wind will blaw a husband till her. 

“ Be a lassie ne’er sae fair. 

Gin she want the penny siller, 

A flie may fell her in the air. 

Before a man be even’d till her. 

Wooin’ at her, etc.” 


“ A flie may fell her in the air,” repeated Gray- 
hurst. “ Ah, but that’s droll ! So racy of the 
true Scotch flavor — as good as the ‘ Auld Wife: ’ 


78 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


“ The maut’s aboon the meal the night, 

Wi’ some.” 

But at last he must take hris leave. The foot 
of time falls lightly at Overstoke/’ he said to 
Barbara. 

“ At least we are magnanimous ; for at the risk 
of making Overstoke jealous of Brignal, we have 
commended you to the charming mistress of the 
farm. The Squire sends all his choicest sheep to 
our Winifred, and she sends all her naughty goats 
to him — which is a parable that you can interpret 
for yourself when the fame of Miss Blythe has 
reached you." 

Jekyll and Thorpe were ready to accompany 
Grayhurst, at least as far as the lodge ; and the 
three took the avenue together. 

It was a silent walk, relieved only by an 
occasional remark, without cordiality and well- 
nigh without interest ; for hostile influences were 
at work, the inevitable antagonism of an ignoble 
egotism on the one hand and a generous alliance 
on the other. 

In single file, following the foot-path, where the 
view was barred by the colonnade of oaks, they 
caught but broken glimpses of the vista of the 
drive to its termination at the lodge ; and it was 
not until they had advanced so far as to bring the 
great gate into full view that they observed two 
persons standing, half-screened by the shrubbery, 
between the gate and the lodge — a man, who 


THE SQ UIRE'S PSALM.— A T THE LODGE. 7 9 

talked vehemently, with clumsy gesticulation, and 
a woman, who listened intently, without speech 
or motion. Then, startled by the sound of steps 
approaching, they parted hastily, the man retreat- 
ing toward the lodge, the woman advancing in 
the carriage-way, on the side nearest the three 
gentlemen — Phyllis Hindman, the innkeeper's 
beautiful daughter. She was pale now ; and as 
she made her pretty rustic curtsy, with a simple 
grace that was all her own, she turned upon 
Jekyll that ’sudden large-eyed look, half question- 
ing, half-appealing, v/hich Grayhurst had detected 
when he first met her at the inn. Now, although 
the American observed her narrowly, he made no 
sign of recognition. Jekyll too would have 
passed her with his careless So, Phyllis ! " but 
the Vicar had neither the delicacy of the one nor 
the indifference of the other : — 

^‘You have been to The Chequers, I sup- 
pose.” 

“ Yes, sir, — with a message to my father.” 

“ From Mr. Shustoke?” 

“ From Mrs. Pennyweight, if you please, sir.” 

“ Ah ! Perhaps the house-keeper would choose 
some other messenger, if she knew that you loi- 
tered on the way to gossip with men. I suppose 
your business did not concern Abershaw.” 

The girl stared : 

“If you please, sir, I do not understand.” 

Here Jekyll broke in: 


8o 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


“ And who the devil could ? What stuff is this ? 
Phyllis, go on to the house ! ” 

Although instantly obeying, without another 
word, and with no abatement of her respectful de- 
meanor, the girl, as she turned to go, smiled fur- 
tively — a smile of grateful relief, rather than 
amusement. 

She was hardly out of hearing before Jekyll 
turned upon the Vicar, speaking low, as Gray- 
hurst walked on. 

“ I suppose that sort of thing is professional, 
Thorpe, and quite in the pastoral line ; but it 
strikes me as in beastly bad taste just now. I 
think you might reserve it for the back-shop at the 
Manse — if you must peck at such a poor little 
barn-door fowl as Barbara’s maid. Try Winifred ; 
she would make sport for some of us, if not for 
you.” 

No retort from the other, who came on in sullen 
silence to the gate, where Grayhurst waited for 
them ; there the Vicar coldly touched his hat to 
the American, and without a word departed, tak- 
ing the highway to the Manse. 

“And that man,” said Jekyll, thoughtfully con- 
templating the retiring figure, “is supposed to have 
been at one time a bright and beautiful soul — 
versatile, genial and engaging. The Cresaps of 
Bolingstone described him as ‘that delightful 
Thorpe and the Cravens of Stanhope ‘ quite 
envied ’ us, in view of a social acquisition so at- 


THE SQ UIRE'SPSALM.—A T THE LODGE, 8 1 

tractive; but that was before Mother Church had 
taken him to her comfortable bosom. Now see. 
what Holy Orders and a presumptive heiress have 
done for him ! Now he is to me as a red rag 
to a bull ; he stirs all that is worst and meanest 
in my temper.” 

So I see,” said Grayhurst, smiling slyly. 

In the door of the lodge a man stood lighting 
a pipe : a swarthy young fellow, with straight 
black hair and smouldering eyes, who might have 
posed correctly for a bravo — picturesque but sinis- 
ter, deriving his gipsy type from a grandmother who 
had pattered Romany and practiced palmistry at 
every fair or “ mop ” in Midlandshire. As the gen- 
tlemen drew near, he removed the pipe from his 
lips and jerked the scant rim of his hat. 

“ My service t’ye, Mr. Jekyll.” ; 

“ Good day, Kit. Waiting for the coach ?” 

**Ay, sir. Ausibel Jem is to fetch a lot o’ 
stuff for the tool-house.” 

“And the new dogs — have you tried them? ” . 

“ I have, sir, to-day in the old fields. The young 
thing’s a trifle foolish and firsty yet, being but a 
pup, as I may say ; but the brown dog stands like 
a church, sir.” 

“ Good ! Meet me at the kennel in the morning, 
and we’ll take them out with the guns.” 

“ Ay, sir ! and you’ll be pleased.” 

“ There’s a treasure,” said Jekyll, presently, “ to 
have about a place like this.” 


82 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


“Indeed? Who, or rather what, is he?** 

“ Kit Abershaw, the Squire’s bailiff — a nonde- 
script, whom no one likes but me ; a dull fellow, 
who never makes a mistake ; and a slow fellow, who 
is always on hand when you want him.” 

“ And yet see,” said Grayhurst, “ how absurdly 
a worthy creature like that may strike the im- 
agination of a stranger. I remembered that I had 
seen several such nondescripts hanged in Cali- 
fornia, who might have been treasures about a 
place like this ; and I was thinking that this slow 
fellow might, some time or other, be on hand sud- 
denly, when he is not wanted.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


A RAMBLE AND A SPECTRE. 

J EKYLL had taken Grayhurst to Brignal, where 
he was greeted by Winifred with the frank 
simplicity of a country girl, finely blended with 
the daintier graciousness of a conscious gentle- 
woman. His good report had preceded him, and 
she was prepared to receive him as a friend of 
Jekyll, and the Squire’s guest. With a woman’s 
sensitive antennae she was quick to respond to his 
claim as a sojourner from over the sea, and to 
invest him with the interest which pertained to that 
circumstance, apart from his personality; quick 
to perceive that to the stranger the familiar sur- 
roundings of an English farmer’s daughter must 
seem strange, and might be entertaining. 

And the music of his mood took its key-note 
from hers, as he surrendered to the charm of this 
ideal home — this domicile of sweet content, where 
mercy and peace had kissed each other, where 
pride and penury might meet as friends, where 
the religion of a poet had become the routine of a 
simple maid : 


84 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


Can’st drink the waters of the crisped spring ? 

O sweet Content ! 

Swim’st thou in wealth, yet sink’st in thine own tears ? 

O punishment ! 

Then he that patiently Want’s burden bears, 

No burden bears, but is a king, a king ! 

O sweet Content ! O sweet, O sweet Content ! 

Work apace, apace, apace, apace! 

Honest labor wears a lovely face. 

Grayhurst found himself pleasantly perplexed 
to decide, between the place and its mistress, 
which owed most to the other. The various 
loveliness of the homestead, its repose, its 
purity, its idyllic charm, were reflected in the 
nature, and even in the person of this, English 
Ruth, while the expression of her conscience, 
the print of her gracious hand were visible 
everywhere: in the house, thrift and method 
with freedom and generous cheer; in kitchen 
and dairy, consummate precision with fragrant 
sweetness; in barn and rick-yard and stable, 
wholesomeness and bounty — with brains. 

Hers was not that ignoble humanity which 
draws its paltry line at the beast that perisheth ; ” 
the ox and the ass at Brignal were proud of their 
mistress’ crib, and the cocks and hens were her 
bustling little lovers. She was admitted to the 
confidence of birds and bees ; the finny denizens 
of Giddyburn had told her their secrets ; and she 
was an oracle of folk-lore in cottages where Lady 
Goodluck” was but a local name for Providence; 


A RAMBLE AND A SPECTRE, 


85 


she could have entertained Herrick with charms 
and weather-proverbs, and Isaac Walton with 
milking-songs. 

Grayhurst, slyly pursuing his researches into 
the Shustoke pedigree and annals, had expressed 
a wish to visit the church and churchyard of Over- 
stoke, under cover of a whimsical interest in 
monuments and other mortuary memorials, relat- 
ing to people who had lived without newspapers 
and died without patent medicines — the people 
of whom Lord Bacon must have thought, when 
he said, “ Out of monuments, names, words, tra- 
ditions, private records and evidences, fragments 
of stones, passages of books, and the like, we do 
save and recover somewhat from the deluge of 
Time.” 

“Quite so!” said Jekyll; “and the proper 
thing to do is to go a-fishing with a congenial 
spirit. Go and sit with Winifred on the edge of 
the Baconian flood, and bob for your respective 
ancestors.” 

And so it was arranged that on the morrow the 
American, with Winifred for his guide, should 
explore the storied urns or “ frail memorials ” of 
Overstoke. The afternoon of a most sweet day 
it was — earth and sky, each in its happiest mood, 
contributing the perfect elements — when Gray- 
hurst, descending the slope from The Chequers, 
struck into the footpath at the bridge, and taking 
the fragrant umbrage of the Hurst and the melo- 


86 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


dious margin of the burn, came, in a mood as 
happy as the midges that “ dance aboon the burn,” 
to the little green wicket in the privet hedge. 
There Winifred awaited him ; from her look-out 
over the porch she had spied him in the highway, 
and eager to take the air, had hastened to meet 
him at the wicket. A simple but winsome hood 
of some soft pink stuff confined her abundant 
brown hair, which else might have strayed in 
wayward tresses and truantries. Her dress of 
creamy lawn, sprig’d with tender pink blossoms, 
was a limpid delight, befitting her station, denot- 
ing her ways, and in harmony with her surround- 
ings, the season and the scene ; her birds and 
flowers would have approved it, and a posy of 
blush rosebuds in her bodice seemed a conscious 
part of the loveliness so modestly revealed there. 

“And beautiful besides,” thought Grayhurst, 
completing certain personal reflections wherewith 
he had entertained himself since he started from 
the inn. “ A Baltimore beauty in a Midland 
croft ! ” 

• For except for certain obscure modulations in 
“ the music of the face,” dependent upon temper- 
ament perhaps, the beauty of Lady Goodluck 
was a startling reproduction of that consummate 
type which is the peculiar renown of the well-born 
women of Maryland : a strain bred from the finest 
English stock, and provendered sumptuously — on 
trout from the mountains of Western Maryland ; 


A /GAMBLE AND A SPECTRE. 


S7 


shad from the Potomac; oysters and soft-shell 
crabs from the coves and inlets of Chesapeake 
Bay ; diamond terrapin from the Eastern Shore ; 
canvas-back ducks from the bay-islands ; par- 
tridges and wood-cock from the uplands; ortolans 
from the river sedges : — toothsome fare for the 
Baltimore Beauty, to be by her transmuted 
through ecstatic processes of assimilation into 
dainty flesh and blood. Hence a vision purely 
fair, with dark-brown hair, sheeny with the ripple 
that artists love, and large profound eyes, mixed 
of hazel and a shadowy gray, 

“ A crystal brow, the moon’s despair, 

And the snow’s daughter, a white hand.” 

And Grayhurst, who was familiar with this 
transcendent type, said of Winifred Blythe, “a 
Baltimore beauty on a Midland farm ! ” 

They passed through the garden, and taking the 
bosky lane between the hollies,,^ame to a small 
turnstile in the hedge whic^hadmitted them to a 
sinuous footpath, known to the cottagers as “ the 
Ramble,” but by Winifred called “ Dalliance” — 
because, although with honest purpose it started 
for the church on its progress to the grave, it wan- 
dered at its own sweet will, beguiled by curiosity 
or ease or pastime, pursuing delight and playing 
with its floral sweethearts. 

Mutzie showed the way enraptured, scampering 
hither and thither in capricious excursions, jerk- 


88 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


ing her blowsy head in sharp eager barks, and 
with petulant insistance of tongue and tail inviting 
those tiresome bipeds to share her small discover- 
ies — a hen that had “ stolen ” a nest, a field-mouse 
or a toad, or a congregation of chithering grass- 
hoppers. 

As they emerged from a clump of young alders, 
and came upon the open ground that skirted 
Flecknoe Park on that side, a cottage girl, with a 
basket on her arm, stepped from the path to let 
them pass ; and as she made her shy obeisance 
she turned upon Winifred a wistful look which 
was instantly interpreted. 

“ What is it, Janet ? ” 

The girl’s reply was inaudible to Grayhurst, 
who saw that she glanced at him timidly ; and he 
turned away. 

“ The child has something to say to me,” said 
Winifred. “ Probably a mere nothing, but I must 
h^ar her. You will indulge us?” 

With a smile of satisfaction, as one who makes 
discovery of a new charm in an already delightful 
companion, Grayhurst withdrew, and calling 
Mutzie, strolled about the heath, loitering to 
inspect some shrub or flower as often as that pre- 
text permitted him to observe discreetly the 
women in the path. 

He saw that the girl talked earnestly, eagerly, 
and not without excitement, her face expressing 
wonder at first, and then anxiety. Once she set 


A RAMBLE AND A SPECTRE. 89 

down her basket, and waved her arms aloft, with a 
strange, measured movement ; then she stooped, 
and seemed to take something from the ground 
and put it in her bosom — twice she did this ; and 
finally she fingered her sleeves at the elbows, first 
the right and then the left, tapping the latter as if 
denoting an important point in her story. 

Presently Winifred spoke gravely and kindly, as 
Grayhurst could discern by Janet’s intent and sub- 
missive attitude ; but especially by the slow, solic- 
itous movement of the lady’s hand, tenderly strok- 
ing the girl’s hair as she spoke, with an action that 
was artlessly maternal. Then the girl took up her 
basket and went her way, and Winifred rejoined 
Grayhurst, returning to meet her. 

At first she was silent, and seemed perplexed, 
and he left her to her mood ; but slie broke the 
spell oddly : 

Have you ghosts in America, Mr. Grayhurst ?” 

None that would interest you — only a vulgar 
variety, a sort of professional apparition, that 
ends itself to spiritistic performances for a con- 
sideration. You can imagine that in so new a 
country we have not the conditions proper to the 
development of spooks and wraiths. Our people 
are apt to shoot at them ; or else they get dissi- 
pated in the thin air of country newspapers and 
threadbare jokes.” 

“ And when you shoot at them — what 

then?” 


90 


AFTER HIS HIND. 


Then we give the remains decent burial, and 
charge the expenses to the estate.” 

“ I think I understand, a's well as one may with 
the average English mind. So you do not believe 
in ghosts? ” 

“ 1 have not said so ; in fact I do, so far as one 
may with the average American mind, unfurnished 
with myths and ruins. But do you ? ” 

“ Why not ? Since I have to deal with them as 
actually as with the mumps or the measles. How 
does it help me that I have no ghosts of my own, 
so long as my neighbors entertain them. To those 
who do believe in them, ghosts are ghosts, not to 
be joked or gibed out of the argument. Here in 
Midlandshire our spooks and wraiths are as real 
as our ruins ; and they must be laid, with the bell, 
book and candle of tact and sympathy. Mr. 
Grayhurst, if you should see a ghost here, in Over- 
stoke or Yawdley, would you shoot at it ? ” 

“ Never ! ” 

“Why not? ” 

“ Because if it were truly disembodied, I should 
be wasting my ammunition, and making a fool of 
myself besides ; and if it were only the masquer- 
ading of some tangible idiot, somebody might get 
obliterated, in a population already scanty.” 

“ Thank you ! that assurance relieves my mind ; 
for I think you will shortly see a ghost. Janet 
Drum has just told me of one that walks.” 

“ She has seen it ? ” 


A RAMBLE AND A SPECTRE. 91 

Only with the eyes of faith and Bessie Mann. 
Janet is the child of the Overstoke bell-ringer, a 
creature compact of superstition ; and to his docile, 
simple girl a ghost is an entity as actual as her 
own bacon and brown bread. Bessie Mann is the 
daughter of the Wynhold carrier, a mild scoffer 
with the conceit of a ‘ funny man,’ who smiles 
superior upon the cherished credulities of the 
three parishes ; and to his quick-witted, self-suffi- 
cient Bessie a ghost is simply ‘ rare fun.’ Now 
the circumstance that confers peculiar importance 
upon this latest apparition is that it has challenged 
Bessie Mann, and sent her screaming and trem- 
bling to Malachi Drum’s cottage, whither she fled 
in terror and hysterics ; and Janet has gone to 
consult the apothecary at Yawdley.” 

What is the story? ” 

“A short one, and to the point. Yesterday 
Bessie was at The Chequers all day, helping the 
maids with the house-cleaning.” 

“And by the same token,” said Grayhurst, . 
“ what a mess they made of it ! I had no place for 
the sole of my foot.” 

“ They were late with the work ; it was bed- 
time before all was done and the things in their 
places. Then they must have supper, for Hind- 
man is kind and thoughtful for his servants ; and 
so it lacked but a few minutes to eleven when 
Bessie started to walk home. As I have told you, 
she lives at Wynhold, nearly four miles from The 


92 


AFTER HIS KIHD. 


Chequers. Hindman would have persuaded her 
to remain, and pass the night with the maids ; 
but her father, she said, would be looking for her, 
and might be angry. The moon was bright, and a 
brisk walk would rest her. As for danger, no one 
thought of that — our Midland lasses have the free- 
dom of the high-way at all hours, and Bessie is 
famously brave ; once, when her mother was ill, 
she took a short cut through the churchyard at 
midnight to fetch the doctor ; no man of her class 
would have done it. 

“ Well, she had passed the bridge, and the lodge, 
mounting the hill; and when she came to the 
lych-gate of the churchyard she was marching 
smartly to her own music, singing as she went. 
The lych-gate, as you will see, is withdrawn from 
the high-road and screened by a clump of willows, 
which form a deep and doleful shadow there ; but 
to Bessie they were merely some trees and a 
gate, and she would have marched on singing — 
but for a flash of white, that burst through the 
dark bower of the gate, and stood in the moon- 
light near the girl : a woman, young, and a lady, 
Bessie says, clad all in white, but very pretty, like 
a fine lady ; and her face, and her neck, and her 
arms, and her hair, even her hair, were all white, 
like snow, just like new-fallen snow.” 

“ Whose words are these ? ” 

“ Bessie’s, as Janet repeated them ; and Janet is 
mechanically literal.” 


A RAMBLE AND A SPECTRE. 93 

“ There the lady stood, and there Bessie stood ; 
but the spectre seemed not to see Bessie, and 
Bessie could not speak nor move. Then the 
poor lady looked up at the sky, and held out her 
hands, as if to catch something that was falling, 
and whatever it was, she put it in her bosom ; 
and she stooped, and seemed to take something 
from the ground, handfuls ! and she put that in 
her white bosom — three times she did that ; and 
then she looked up at the sky again, and waved 
her white arms, solemn-like, so! [here Winifred 
exactly repeated Janet’s action]; and then she 
turned, and went back through the lych-gate 
into the churchyard; and the last that Bessie saw 
of the poor lorn thing was her white hair, and her 
white arms waving — so ! ” 

“ Well ? ” said Grayhurst. 

“ That’s all,” said Winifred ; “ Bessie kno.ws no 
more. She found herself, shivering and trembling 
in Janet’s arms; that’s all — No, not quite all: 
just one thing more, but to me more curious than 
all the rest. As Bessie stood, petrified and dumb, 
she noticed that on the right sleeve of the white 
dress — short * elbow-sleeves’ — there was a pretty 
bow of white ribbon ; she looked for its compan- 
ion, but on the left sleeve there was none ; and 
Bessie wondered if the lady knew she had lost 
it. As a revelation of feminine instinct that is 
matchless.” 

“ And as circumstantial evidence,” said Gray- 


^4 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


hurst, “ It is conclusive. The girl did surely see 
— the other.” 

“ ‘ The other’ was Cicely' Shustoke, the Snow 
Bride ; but you have not heard the story : She 
was the only daughter of Hugo Shustoke of Over- 
stoke, a man of feudal ideas and iron will, whose 
children were his chattels. Perhaps he desired 
their happiness, but he allowed them no voice in 
that matter, nor in any other ; and he brooked no 
argument from their friends. 

“There were but two of them. Cicely and 
Rupert, who was afterward high-sheriff. The boy 
was the younger by five years, and Cicely was in 
her nineteenth year when she died, in 1675. Tradi- 
tion describes her as a most gentle and timid 
creature, trembling before her father, and broken 
between her love and her fear of him. There is 
a picture of her at Overstoke, which is thought to 
resemble Barbara ; but it is rarely shown to visit- 
ors, because the tragedy of Cicely disturbed the 
even tenor of the Shustoke ways. 

“ When it seemed good to her father that Cicely 
should be married, he gave her to a crony of his, 
as he would have given a colt or a heifer. Boult- 
bee of Wynhold, a tough old bachelor of good 
estate, who had made himself necessary to the 
comfort of the master of Overstoke, by hunting or 
fishing with him by day and hobnobbing with him 
at night, had looked with favor upon Cicely. One 
night, over a game of draughts and a bottle, the 


A RAMBLE AND A SPECTRE. 


95 


Squire bantered Boultbee for a ‘ soft old loon,’ and 
told him to ‘ take the pretty kitten, and keep her 
kindly.’ As for the pretty kitten, it only winced 
and trembled, and ran to hide itself ; for Cicely 
had given her heart to her kinsman, young Meri- 
den of Yawdley. That was their secret, and they 
were biding their time ; but here was an end of 
all that. When her lover said Fate and she said 
Father, they meant the same thing. 

“ Her bridal dress was ready, and the wedding 
was to be on Christmas Eve. For two days snow 
had fallen in great feathery flakes, and now lay 
deep in all the fields and ways. On the morning 
of Christmas Eve, when Cicely’s nurse went to 
her ‘ lady-bird’s ’ chamber to call her, she found the 
nest empty ; the bed had not been occupied, 
although the clothes that Cicely had worn the 
night before were lying in disorder on couches or 
on the floor ; but the bridal robes were missing ; 
drawers had been opened, and their contents scat- 
tered — confusion and flight ! 

• “They searched the house, they beat the woods, 
they dragged the mere ; they made a hue-and-cry 
and turned the parishes upside down — no Cicely. 

“ On Christmas night a hedger’s wife, in their 
cottage near the churchyard, nagged at her good- 
man till she made him take a lantern over the 
wall, to grope among the graves for a noise she 
had heard the night before — a woman’s cry ; she 
had thought it was a dream then, but now she felt 


96 


AFTER ms KIND. 


it was a Thing. No sound, no sign; the fleecy 
winding-sheet lay soft and smooth over all, and 
the man would have returned to his warm bed and 
his foolish missus — when the light of his lantern 
fell on the group of Shustoke graves, near the 
church porch ; ■ and there he counted one grave 
more than ever he had counted before. It lay 
close to the Squire’s dame, poor dumb trouble ! — 
and such a clever grave ! no clumsy varlet’s job, 
with mattock and shovel, but just a neat figure of 
a corpse, that the snow had made. 

“ And then with his hands he began to clear 
away the snow ; he was too simple to be afraid ; 
snow was snow, and dead was dead to him. 

‘‘ She had gone to sleep by her mother’s side, 
and drawn the cove;*let over her. And she had 
cuddled the pretty snow in her bosom, as a child 
cuddles a pet.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE CHURCHYARD. — A STORY AND A RIBBON. 



dear old church!” said Winifred; “I 


1 think our people love it better than they 
know. Is it not beautiful in this view ? with its 
ivied towers and buttresses, and the superlative 
elegance of the spire — no finer spire in all England. 
We have a peal of five bells, so cheerful and so 
sweet 1 When you hear them you cease to won- 
der at the persuasive charm of chimes in our 
rural parishes. And then our Overstoke church 
is equipped with all the hallowed accessories that 
help to complete its endearment and its inspira- 
tion. We have an ancient stone font ; and an 
iron-clamped poor-box, with its posy, ^ Give Alms 
of thy goods, and never turn thy face from any 
Poor Man.’ The tottering crone, who rests on the 
bench in the porch, can exchange conclusions 
with the same sun-dial that entertained her grand- 
mother. In the floors of the main aisle and the 
chancel are ancient brasses with legends — I know 
them all by heart : ‘ Of your Mercy, Pray for the 
soul of Alice Clifton.’ 


98 


AFTER HJS KIND. 


AbeLE : SOTESTOKE : GlST : ICI : 

/f DieU : DE : SA : Alme : ElT : MerCI. 

“ Pour Lamour de Jesu Christ: 

Priez pour sa alme q’ici gist. 

\ 

“ Pater Noster et Ave : 

Thomas de Yadleghe fut apelle. 

“I am sorry,” she continued, “that we cannot 
get entrance to the church to-day. The old dame 
who keeps the keys is charring and gossiping at 
Wynhold — one of the small ripples of interest in 
the tame current of her life; but we can find 
entertainment in the churchyard. Did you know 
what I meant by the lych-gate in Bessie’s adven- 
ture ? ” 

“ Perhaps I guessed,” said Grayhurst ; “ I know 
^the shrieking litch-owl and there is Lichfield, 
the field of the dead. Your lych-gate must be the 
gate through which the dead are borne.” 

“ I forgot you were an American. It was one 
of your countrymen who said, ‘ Give me a start of 
plain schooling and a gift of guessing, and I’ll 
catch up to an Englishman with a liberal educa- 
tion.’ Yes, the lych-gate is the gate of the 
corpse — and here it is. The path leading to it is 
the lych-lane. Under the shelter of this ancient 
shed the bearers set down their burden and rest, 
till the coming of the clergyman who is to conduct 
the services. Then they take it up again, and fol- 
low him through the avenue of willows to the 


THE CHURCHYARD. 


99 


church. After the burial the spirit of that person 
mounts guard here, and keeps the gate until 
relieved by the next comer.” 

With no change of tone or manner, no visible 
consciousness of mystery, Winifred delivered 
these words as if they expressed a familiar circum- 
stance ; and the American received them as con- 
veying to his mind merely a novel and interesting 
fact. 

“On St. John's Eve, if you watch in the church 
porch until the midnight hour is struck on the 
great clock, you may see the wraiths of all those 
who are to die within the year (perhaps your own) 
enter by this gate, and follow the robed priest to 
the places appointed for their final lodging. 

“ A lyke-wake is a death-watch — lych and lyke 
being only different forms of the same word. I 
know a strange lyke-wake dirge that the women 
of Yorkshire sang of old to their corpses. Would 
you like to hear it ? ” 

“ Miss Blythe,” said Grayhurst, “ you have the 
glamour of Old England; and it is my great- 
grandfather’s great-grandfather whom you are 
entertaining in my person.” 

“ Understand then, that the women who sing 
this song believe (‘such is their fondness’) that 
the dead must pass through ‘ a launde full of 
thorns and furzen’ — that is Whinny Muir; and 
then the Bridge of Dread must be crossed, to enter 
Purgatory.” 


too 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


And as they went through the avenue and 
among the graves, she recited : 

“ This ae nighte, this ae nighte, 

Everie nighte and alle, 

Fire and sake and candle-Iighte ; 

And Christe receive thy saule ! 

" When thou from hence away art past, 

Everie nighte and alle, 

To Whinny-Muir thou com’st at last ; 

And Christe receive thy saule. 

" If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, 

Everie nighte and alle, 

Sit thee down and put them on ; 

And Christe receive thy saule! 

“ If hosen and shoon thou gavest nane, 

Everie nighte and alle. 

The Whinnes shall prick thee to th' bare bane; 
And Christe receive thy saule ! 

“ From Brigg o’ Dread when thou mayst pass, 
Everie nighte and alle. 

To Purgatorie Fire, thou com’st at last ; 

And Christe receive thy saule ! 

“ If ever thou gavest meate or drinke, 

Everie nighte and alle. 

The fire shall never make thee shrinke ; 

And Christe receive thy saule ! 

“ If meate or drinke thou gavest nane, 

Everie nighte and alle, 

The fire shall burne thee to th’ bare bane ; 
And Christe receive thy saule I 


THE CHURCHYARD. 


lOI 


" This ae nighte, this ae nighte, 

Everie nighte and alle, 

Fire and salte and candle-lighte ; 

And Christe receive thy saule ! 

“Is not that ilncanny? Imagine the ululation of 
the solo, and the chorus of crones in the alternate 
lines.” 

“ And the cry of the poor, and the torment of 
the cruel,” said Grayhurst. “ I perceive now why 
you respect these superstitions, Miss Blythe ; you 
have caught their undertone of pathos and appeal, 
which is lost to the duller ear of indifference and 
slowness of heart.” 

“ They are always pitiful,” said Winifred, mod- 
estly, “ and often accusing, these parables of 
the childish mind. But where do you get your 
insight ?” 

“ From your eyes.” 

Then their eyes met ; and each in the other 
saw the invisible, and wondered if the other saw 
it too. 

Returning by way of the church, Winifred 
paused at a little grave, quite fenced and canopied 
with flowers. 

“ This was a most beautiful and engaging lit- . 
tie lad,” she said, “the pride of the Meridens of 
Yawdley. The old still love to talk of his super- 
natural grace and winsomeness, and the maids to 
frame his grave in flowers. It was the Squire’s 
young sister, Barbara’s mother, who suggested 


102 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


these lines from Ben Jonson’s epitaph on the boy- 
actor : 


** Weep with me, all ye who read 
This little story ; 

And know for whom a tear ye shed. 

Death’s self is sorry. 

“ ' Twas a child, that did so thrive 
In grace and feature. 

That heaven and nature seemed to strive 
Which owned the creature.” 

If the lines,” said Grayhurst, “ reflect the 
taste and feeling of the mother, one may look for 
graceful revelations from the daughter. And 
these Meridens, did they not intermarry with 
the Shustokes? Cicely, the Snow Bride, had 
given her heart to a Meriden, you said ; but was 
there not a marriage in the preceding genera- 
tion?” 

I see the Squire has been with you ; or was 
it Dick? I should be pleased to know that our 
hare-brained cynic has developed a taste for pedi- 
gree, to the extent of inquiring how he came into 
the world. Yes, I have heard the Squire say that 
a Shustoke of Overstoke married Mary Meriden of 
Yawdley ; and the pretty lad who lies under this 
stone had Shustokes for his ancestors. As for 
that, so had I, through my mother’s people, the 
Curzons. And now I learn, through Mr, Jekyll, 


THE CHURCHYARD. 


103 

that you have Shustokes in Maryland: Mr. 
Julian, for example, who drives mules.” 

“ The plot thickens,” said Grayhurst ; I shall 
be claiming you presently for that intrepid Forty- 
niner, as a long-lost cousin, seventy-seven times 
removed. But how did Jekyll come into the 
world ?” 

“ He is the creature of circumstance, peculiar in 
his generation. Once, in the spring of 1783 — it 
was in Squire Marmaduke’s time — the Boling- 
stone coach brought to Ausibel a passenger who 
looked like a vagabond and behaved like a 
prince. He was all unkempt and tattered, 
but he wore his dishevelment with an air of 
distinction. You would not have given a half- 
crown for his coat, but the price of a rich 
wardrobe was in his purse. The inn-people 
smiled when his back was turned, and uncovered 
to him when he faced them. The guard whis- 
pered that he had shot a highwayman and cud- 
geled a gipsy, before he turned into the inn-yard 
at Bolingstone and abandoned his jaded nag ; 
but the stranger appeared to have forgotten those 
diverting episodes. He gave no account of him- 
self, and no one ventured to question him. On 
the third day he summoned the landlord, and 
asked the way to Overstoke, seeming surprised 
when he was told that he had passed it in the 
coach. With a careless question about the family 
there, he extracted from his garrulous host a sup« 


104 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


ply of information out of all proportion to the 
demand. Then he took horse and rode to the 
manor. 

“ Squire Marmaduke received him with caution, 
even with suspicion ; and yet, as he afterward 
explained, with a certain unaccountable compunc- 
tion from the first glance. ‘ The lad’s face,’ he said, 
^was as a dim and dear remembrance.’ 

“ The stranger’s address compelled attention — 
deferential yet confident, and delivered with a 
quality of refinement strangely at variance with his 
almost reckless aspect. A few words at the close, 
uttered with a bright frank smile, drew from the 
squire an exclamation of astonishment. He 
invited the new-s;omer into his Library, where 
they remained closeted together the whole of that 
afternoon. When they came forth, they were 
friends. 

“ The stranger’s horse was sent back to the inn ; 
the stranger became the honored guest of Over- 
stoke; and when next he appeared at Ausibel, this 
time in the conventional attire of a country gen- 
tleman, he was presented by the squire as 
'my young kinsman, Mr. Richard Shustoke, son 
of a cousin of mine who died abroad.’ 

“ Nothing more particular was disclosed ; curios- 
ity was held in check by a significant reserve. 
'Abroad ’ was an elastic term, which people might 
fit to their conjectures to please themselves ; in 
that connection nothing definite was ever known, 


THE CHURCHYARD. 


105 

except that the young man had come last from 
France. 

“ Near Wynhold, a pretty house that had been 
a hunting-lodge, with agreeable grounds about it 
belonging to the squire, chanced to be without a 
tenant at this time ; ’tis Jekyll’s* den’ to-day — the 
Croft, you know. Here the comely and interest- 
ing cousin ‘ from abroad ’ was installed ; and here 
for several years he led the life of a popular 
young squire, ‘ approved by nobility and gentry,’ 
extravagantly admired by susceptible woman-kind, 
and. beloved by the poor ; only the more fractious 
youth of his class lamented his actual ‘ slowness,’ 
while they suspected his athletic and festive possi- 
bilities. It was noticed that his resources, though 
mysterious, were regular and sufficient ; he never 
lacked the means to hold his own among gentle- 
men, although he indulged in no vain prodigali- 
ties ; and his dearest friend and comrade was the 
squire’s son, Ralph. 

“ At last he married Grace, only child of Sir 
George Esseby of Ausibel. Sir George had 
received him graciously, but held him in a hope- 
ful suspense. ‘ Young gentleman,’ he said, ‘ you 
have not taken me by surprise, and your suit is 
not displeasing. But first I have certain questions 
to ask of your kinsman and my good friend ; 
afterward, you shall hear from me. But I trust 
that, in any case, you and I may still be neigh- 
borly.’ 


lo6 AFTER HIS KIND, 

“ On the morrow the two cronies took counsel 
together in the library at Overstoke. Their sit- 
ting was long, and the wine was good, and the 
Squire’s account of his young kinsman from abroad 
must have been satisfactory (geographically and 
otherwise) to Sir George ; for the lovers were mar- 
ried at Easter. 

“But Sir George kept the family secret ; and to 
this day, in the land of the living, only Squire 
Randal knows whence came that Richard Shus- 
toke, or who were his people. 

“ In due time a girl was born to the young 
couple, and it was her father’s fancy to call her 
Johanna.” 

The American’s interest expressed itself in a 
soft furtive whistle. 

“ I beg your pardon,” he said ; “ that is a national 
note of exclamation. I was struck with the name, 
and with a coincidence. We had a Johanna 
Shustoke in Maryland ; and her husband, Rich- 
ard, was the first of the name in America. The 
family-tree of my friend Julian springs from that 
pair. But what became of the child?” 

“ She grew to be a lovely young woman, and 
was married to Arthur Jekyll, of an old Dorset 
family : a young gentleman of amiable qualities, 
fair talents, and moderate fortune. But Johanna 
was always fragile ; in the birth of her child she 
nearly gave her life for the lad ; and although she 
lived until he was five years old, she never recov- 


THE CHURCHYARD, 


107 


ered from the shock of that great peril. In obedi- 
ence to their medical advisers, Jekyll took her to 
Italy, leaving the child with his grandfather ; there 
the young mother took the Roman fever and 
died ; and her husband, broken by the dreadful 
stroke, was buried by her side, before her father, 
now a widower, could come to comfort him. 

“ The orphan lad became the playmate and dar- 
ling of his grandfather, who could hardly spare 
him out of his sight. At first he taught the child 
himself, and then he engaged a tutor — a phenom- 
enal curate with more heart than head, and with 
all knowledge except knowledge of the world. 

“ The lad was very teachable, an animated note 
of interrogation : sensitive, tender, ardent, impet- 
uous, adventurous. His grandfather called him 
Devil Dick.” 

“ His grandfather! This is very strange.” 

“Was it not? — so unlike the old man, never 
given to extravagant or unseemly expressions. 
And Dick pretends that he has lived up to his 
title. I think it will even outlast him ; for it has 
become to the people here, who love him one and 
all, a term of endearment, a pet name. 

“ There 1 ” she concluded, “ I have told you all 
I know, (all that even Richard knows), as we have 
gathered it from the fond recitals of the good 
Squire and my dear old Judith. And I have told 
you, Mr. Grayhurst, because I wish you to discern, 
and — yes, to influence, a life that is dear to us.” 


io8 


THE CHURCHYARD. 


“ Miss Blythe,” said the American, '‘you dome 
singular honor, and yet it is my good fortune to 
deserve it ; for there can be no man in England 
whom I would so gladly serve as Devil Dick 
Shustoke.” 

They had reached the group of Shustoke tombs, 
that formed an imposing little cemetery in front 
of the church porch. These were for the most 
part altar-tombs, and Winifred led her companion 
to those that bore the crosslet, and the names 
of Hugo and Rupert, Marmaduke and Ralph — 
helping the American to decipher the inscriptions, 
which in more than one instance might have been 
tedious but for their quaintness. 

“Now I must think of Julian,” said Grayhurst, 
“and copy this curious legend of Hugo, if you 
will indulge me. Some other time I can take the 
others ;” and Winifred, leaving him to his note- 
book and pencil, bent her steps toward the grave 
of the ill-fated Cicely, who was at the moment in 
her thoughts. Bending over the broad flat stone, 
she was intently engaged in perusing with renewed 
interest the tragic story, when Grayhurst’s atten- 
tion was diverted from his task by the clamorous 
barking of Mutzie. 

The vivacious little creature had again found 
something, and would have persuaded Winifred 
to come and see ; but failing in this, she disap- 
peared in the tall herbage near Cicely’s tomb, and 
presently returned dragging a bow of soft, white 


THE CHURCHYARD. 109 

ribbon, which she laid at her mistress’s feet — this 
time insisting upon the discovery in her sharp 
imperative way. 

Then Winifred looked down. With a stifled 
exclamation of astonishment and consternation, 
she snatched the ribbon ; with a woman’s deft 
trick of inspection she questioned it with a touch 
and a glance, then hid it in her bosom ; and then 
she turned and looked at the American. He was 
scratching his head and knitting his brows over a 
half-obliterated word. 


CHAPTER X. 


SOCIAL AND L Y R I C A L.— D ECLINEDWITH 
THANK S.. 

R eversing the natural order of topographi- 
cal statement, the village of Yawdley may 
be described as convenient to The Chequers, which 
is to impute to the hostelry a measure of relative 
importance not greater than its due ; for the inn, 
standing aloof from the modest little thorp, and 
yet hard by, at once sequestered and conspicuous, 
was the true centre of travel and traffic, of local 
interest and agitation, and the instituted 
exchange of gossip. The Brahmins have a cyni- 
cal proverb, “ What is the news of the day to a 
frog in a well ? ” and when the frogs of Yawdley, 
Overstoke and Wynhold were stirred by the sound 
of news in the air, they straightway came out of 
their wells and hopped to The Chequers, where 
they squatted expectant and made unfathomable 
faces at each other. 

The highway southward from Sylcaster, as it 
mounted the long hill, became the High-street of 
Yawdley: — no ideal, scene-shifter’s village, “all 
gables and acacia,” but just a utilitarian develop- 


SOCIAL AND LYRICAL. 


1 1 1 


merit of domiciles around a town-well and a 
“ green, ”an old church and a pillory. Not that it 
was destitute of those pleasing features which are 
familiar in the aspect of a Midland village ; for 
there were the thatched cottage and the trim 
hedge, the grass plot and the flower bed, the 
woodbine, ensign of home, and the holly, hallowed 
to Christmas — charms that can glorify a factory 
and make a railway-station a rapture ; but the 
muse did not come to Yawdley to celebrate these 
things, and the masters have not portrayed them. 

Yet Yawdley could boast of one conspicuous 
advantage : it was near The Chequers. When 
Sylcaster Luke, profoundly cogitating upon the 
illusions of life, and the inscrutable purpose 
involved in the creation of horse-flies, came to the 
top of the High-street, between the pillory and 
the “ Bagman’s Rest,” he cast off the slow drag 
of his mind as his four smart bays completed the 
tug of Yawdley Hill; and merrily, all together, 
they took the level stretch to the left, for full 
suppers and soft beds, and all the rest of the 
realities to be revealed in a night at The Chequers. 

A festal night; for this was Toby’s birthday. 
“ Here’s his jolly good ’ealth,” thought Luke, 
“ and many happy returns of the same ! A land- 
lord of the warm old sort ; burly and bluff, with a 
sound head and a soft heart ; sticks to black 
velvet smalls and leather leggins o’ Sundays ; 
keeps open house to the homeless ; counts a good 


1 12 


AFTER ms KIND. 


horse a better Christian than a lazy parson ; hates 
railways and bird-cages ; wants fair play for 
gipsies and dogs ; would sooner drink with a 
coachman than bet with a lord ; despises trousers ; 
wishes Dick Turpin was here to speak for himself ; 
feeds the hungry, gives good measure, clothes the 
naked, and kicks a sneak.” 

It was Toby’s custom on his birthnight to 
receive the congratulations of his friends in the 
great kitchen, which was fondly garnished for 
the occasion with sheen of metal and pageantry 
of flowers. Burnished kettles and pans made a 
brave splendor on the dressers ; open cupboards 
displayed their ceramic fancies; the smoke-jack 
clanked and the tall clock ticked with official 
importance ; the sooty rafters hung out their 
“garnered fulness” in streaky hams and flitches; 
and on the long deal table, scoured with silver- 
sand and enthusiasm, the succulence of beef and 
mutton, and the savor of rabbits stewed with 
onions, were as the incense of adulation to the 
master of the feast. There was a tankard of ale 
or a stoop of cider to every man’s hand, and 
healths and draughts went free ; while pipes and 
shag invited the contemplative parishioner to the 
fume of life without the fret. 

The company came early and all together, the 
latest arrival but a few minutes behind the first ; 
for these were but clumsy rustics, and in their 
ignorance they stumbled upon the good manners 


SOCIAL AND L YRICAL. 


”3 


their lagging betters would have scorned. Every 
man, in his Sunday best, clean and solemn, hung 
up his hat as he entered, and straightway applied 
himself with great singleness of mind to the con- 
sumption of the viands ; else, what were they 
there for, and what was expected of him ? And 
he served himself, and fed standing. Help 
yourself, and please yourself,’' was landlord’s law 
on these occasions, and experiment had demon- 
strated that the largest capacity for the stowage 
of victuals is afforded by a strictly perpendicular 
posture, with deliberation. “A mortal’s inside,” 
said the carrier, “ is like a bottle : you must stand 
him up to fill him up.” 

At the close of this performance (which, by 
mutual knowledge of the methods and powers 
employed, was so well timed that no soul was left 
to strive in solitude), every man emitted a deep- 
drawn sigh of satisfaction, such as, heard through 
a thin partition, may not be distinguished from 
the common sigh of disappointment and regret. 
Then the full guest wiped his mouth with the 
back of his hand, took up his brimming tankard, 
and retired to his appointed place at the great 
bare table in the middle of the room, where he 
girded up the loins of his mind, and braced 
himself for the intellectual encounter. 

Martin Cole, the wheelwright, with a face like 
a buttered cherub, took the floor by right of 
seniority, and proposed the time-worn toast. 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


1 14 

which was honored with all the tumultuous 
cordiality due to the most startling novelty: — 
“ Here’s wishin’ good luck to The Chequers, and 
a jolly good ’ealth to the landlord ; and many 
happy returns of the same ! ” 

Then Toby, modestly covering the inner disk 
of his countenance with the convenient mask of 
a tankard, and clearing the cobwebs from his 
vocal gallery with a noble draught, proceeded to 
deliver himself (in a robust baritone, trained on 
bacon and greens) of the song that immemorial 
usage had dedicated to his birthnight : — 

“ God above, who rules all things, 

Monks and abbots, and beggars and kings, 

The ships that in the sea do swim, 

The earth, and all that is therein — 

Not forgetting the old cow’s hide. 

And every thing else in the world beside ; 

And I wish his soul in heaven may dwell. 

Who first invented the leathern bott^l ! ” 

Chorus by the company : “ And I wish his soul.” 

♦ ***.♦>► 

“ Now when this bottel it is worn out. 

Out of his sides you may cut a clout ; 

This you may hang upon a pin— 

'Twill serve to put odd trifles in : 

Ink and soap and candle-ends. 

For young beginners have need of such friends; 
And I wish his soul in heaven may dwell 
Who first invented the leathern bottel ! ” 


SOCIAL AND L YRICAL. 


“5 


Chorus as before, with approving clatter of 
tankards, while Heber Tripp, the shoemaker, 
expressed his unabated admiration of the land- 
lord’s voice. 

“A fine boisterous organ,” he said ; ‘‘ I never 
heard the likes of it for making a man’s welkins 
ring.” 

“True, Heber!” said Malachi Drum, the bell- 
ringer ; “ it do have a welcome ring — strong as 
triples and musical as bob-majors ; it do.” 

“ He thought I said welcome,” murmured the 
shoemaker, with a gentle sorrow. “ How strange 
the figgers o’ speech do fall on the common ear! 
’Tis as sounding brass and tinker’s symbols to 
some.” 

“ S.oldier ! ” said Luke Crotty, who was describ- 
ing to the landlord a remarkable passenger he had 
brought from Sylcaster that afternoon. “Yes, 
’twere only one soldier when you come to count 
its arms and legs ; but you’d ’a’ thought ’twere an 
army with banners, with a brass band and a drum- 
major throw’d in, if you’d ’a’ heered it talk. It 
must ’a’ slept with field-marshal the Dook, and 
played skittles with Bonyparte, besides amusin’ of 
itself now and then, a-kickin’ of the Horse-guards 
around. I never see nothink so warlike since old 
Carnage, the cock-eyed tailor, used to drill the 
goose-step grenadiers at Sylcaster.” 

“ And where may this lobster be now ? ” inquired 
Toby. 


ii6 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


“ I guess he just stepped over to buy Overstoke ; 
leastways he had three-and-six in his pocket." 

“ I met a soldier," said the carrier, Abel Mann, 
“as I were a-comin’ Brignal way along. He called 
me Turmots, and arsked what were the price o’ 
pigs. I arsked him were any of his fambly in 
litter." 

This bucolic sally of the facetious carrier was 
greeted with a spontaneous burst of applause and 
much pounding of pewter; and then the landlord 
invited Silas Parr, the schoolmaster, to favor the 
company with a song. A colorless young man 
with a pale voice responded with a plaintive recital 
of his adventures in Cupid’s Garden. He explained 
that he had not walked in that garden “ the pahst 
of ’arf an hour," when there he saw two pretty 
maids a-sitting under a shady bower. One of 
these was lovely Nancy, whom every man in the 
company must have known and admired, seeing 
how all nodded and smiled when she was named ; 
“ the other was a virgin, who did the laurel wear." 

" I boldly stepped up to her. 

And unto her did say, 

Are you engaged to any young man ? 

Do tell to me, I pray. 

I’m not engaged to any young man, 

I solemnly do swear ; 

I mean to live a virgin, 

And still the laurel wear.” 

The accents of keen suffering in which the pale 


SOCIAL AND LYRICAL. 


I17 

young man succeeded in steeping the virgin’s 
statement of her condition and her views, though 
not impervious to criticism on the score of exag- 
geration, were irresistible in^their appeal to the 
compassion of his audience; and Jekyll and Gray- 
hurst, appearing at that moment, found the com- 
pany in full enjoyment of the tender episode. 

The gentlemen entered laughing, as if bringing 
with them the humor of a situation which was 
presently to be explained. They greeted the 
company cheerily, and flattered the landlord with 
appropriate compliments and expressions of good- 
will. 

‘‘Ah! there is Luke,” said Jekyll; “now we 
shall have ‘ The Auld Wife,’ as no other man 
can sing it. Come, Crotty ! the maut’s aboon the 
meal the night, and Mr. Grayhurst and I will give 
you biberry-bum with a will.” 

When Fortune made a coachman of Luke 
Crotty she spoiled a strolling-player, for the man 
had a true Thespian faculty for the making of 
faces and singing of character songs. He had 
served his apprenticeship on the box between 
Carlisle and Dumfries, and at “ The Bolster,” on 
the road, where he had acquired an assortment of 
Scotch songs more remarkable for pungent humor 
than refinement, but happily chosen for the dis- 
play of his eccentric gifts. The tipsy widower in 
the “Auld Wife” was his strong part, and he 
always sang that song for his own benefit. Jekylls 


: AFTER HIS KIND. 


i.i8 

cajoling easily beguiled him, and in a moment he 
was transformed — blinking sottishly and with a 
maudlin snuffle, as he hugged his pint-stoop, with 
his hair in his eyes^ 

“ O fare ye weel, my auld wife ! 

Sing bum, biberry bum ; 

O fare ye weel, my auld wife ! 

Sing bum. 

0 fare ye weel, my auld wife ! 

Thou steerer up o’ sturt and strife ! 

(The maut’s aboon the meal the night, 

Wi’ some.)” 

Here Luke’s boozy leer and wink must be 
imagined. 

“ And fare ye weel, my pike-staff ! 

Sing bum, biberry bum ; 

And fare ye weel, my pike-staff ! 

Sing bum. 

And fare ye weel, my pike-staff ! 

Nae mair wi’ thee my wife I’ll baff ! 

(The maut’s aboon the meal the night, 

Wi' some.) 

“ Fu’ white white was her winding sheet ! 

Siag bum, biberry bum; 

Fu’ white white was her winding sheet ! 

Sing bum. 

1 was o’er gladsome far to greet ; 

I danced my lane, and sang to sec’t ! 

(The maut’s aboon the meal the night, 

Wi’ some.”) 

Every man shot out the Bum and the Biberry- 


SOCIAL AND L YRICAL. 


119 

bum with the thump of a bass drum, and the 
applause at the end was vigorous and hilarious. 
But Dolly Sparrow broke the din with most ad- 
mired disorder, as she bounced into the room, 
red and panting, and disheveled as to her rib- 
bons and her ringlets. 

Now, Dolly Sparrow was always pretty, and she 
knew it — prettiest in a passion, as everybody 
knew ; but her opportunities in that direction were 
rare. The current of her career at The Chequers 
flowed with monotonous placidity between the 
impartial coquetries of her calling and the privi- 
leged petulancies of her place. By the household 
at the inn, and by the guests, whether from the 
parishes or the coaches, her ways were regarded 
with indulgence, and even with a sort of playful- 
ness; so that she was usually thrown upon her 
ingenuity to invent her own provocations, and 
often sighed forlorn for the luxury of a flashing 
rosy rage. 

And here she had one, hot as heart could desire, 
brought by a fellow in a scarlet coat. 

“Well — if — ever! Is there such a thing as a 

Man here ? Where’s the master? Oh ! ” 

“What’s the matter, lass?” inquired Hindman, 
blandly contemplating the furious form between 
the serene puffs of his yard o’ clay. 

“ Well, did ever ! What’s the house coming to ? 
that’s what I want to know. What is a British 
bar-maid ? Anybody’s hussy, I suppose, to be 


I 20 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


touzled by every red rascal that comes over the 
road ! Oh ! ” 

I knovv'd it,” said Luke ; it’s that goose-step 
warrior; he’s been a-surroundin’ of Dolly.” 

“ Oh, you are there, are you, Mr. Grotty ? 
Enjoying of yourself, as is only your just dues, 
after doing the house the honor to bring us such 
a galliant milit’ry hero as I’ve just been a-throw- 
in’ tobies and wine-glasses at ; which if you had 
broke his beastly neck I’d have gladly presented 
you with tivo bokays and a lock of me ’air.” 

Luke glanced shamefaced at the nosegay in his 
button-hole, and was squelched. 

“ Come, come, lass ! ” said Toby, who had left 
his place and approached the girl. “ What’s all 
this about ? Did the fellow insult you?” 

“That depends upon what you expect of me, 
Mr. Hindman, sir. If I was your daughter, and a 
nahsty lobster like that was to claw me as if I 
was carrion, I dare say you’d call it insult ; but 
being as I’m only your bar-maid, you may call it 
business.” 

“ Hoot, child ! I’m ashamed of you ; you know 
me better. Daughter or Dolly, it’s all one when 
it comes to the likes o’ that.” 

“But, Mr. Hindman, sir, when he tried to 
kiss me I threw a toby and two glasses at him.” 

“ Good ! I forgive you the crockery.” 

“ But I missed him ! and him such a bisr 
blackguard,” 


SOCIAL AND L YRICAL. 


121 


'‘Ah! Dolly, Dolly !” cried Jekyll; “after all 
the practice you’ve had. You never miss me.” 

“ Mr. Jekyll, sir, I never knew you to dodge a 
wine-glass.” 

“ Miss Sparrow, I never knew you to dodge a 
kiss.” 

And the Furious Form retired tickled and minc- 
ing, followed by the landlord. 

“Fetch the fellow here, Toby,” said Jekyll. 
“ He seems to be dull company for himself. We 
will endeavor to amuse him, or rout him.” 

But Hindman returned in a moment, pleased 
and proud, and leading Phyllis by the hand. 

“ Why, here’s my little lass !” he said, “ come by 
her mistress’ leave to drintc her daddy’s health, 
and sing a song for his birthday. Make your 
service to the gentlemen, my pretty, and pass a 
pleasant word with the neighbors, while I see to 
this soldier chap ; ” and he kissed her tenderly, 
leaving her there. 

For a moment the girl stood, saluting the com- 
pany with happy gracious eyes ; and a blush and a 
smile met in the paradise of her face, like lovers 
in a garden. Then, with drooping lids, and one 
hand on her bosom, she prettily louted to the 
“ gentry,” as she proceeded to make the circuit of 
the table, greeting her father’s friends. From 
face to face of that rustic company a smile of ten- 
der pleasure flitted, blended of friendliness and 
admiration ; and they blessed her as she passed. 


122 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


When she came to Simon Dudder, that good old 
yeoman kissed her cheek ; and for a moment they 
rested so, the dainty soft rose fondling the wrin- 
kled brown, and the spare grizzled locks pathetic- 
ally caressing that splendor of golden braids. 

“ Ah ! but ye be bonny, my child,” said Simon, 
“ and good as bonny, I doubtna. Ye be in my 
Mistress Winifred’s prayers; and she do have an 
angel to her own. The Lord, He will keep thee 
safe ! ” 

Grayhurst glanced at Jekyll ; there was a strange 
soft light in the eyes of Devil Dick. And then he 
looked at the girl, and wondered if there was ever 
anything so pitifully lovely ; for even through her 
gladness he discerned the shadow of trouble and 
appeal. Her gown and its simple adornments 
were like an old country song, so limpid, so idyl- 
lic, so musically befitting : — 

My love is like a melody, 

That’s sweetly played in tune. 

Here was no “ winning wave, deserving note, in 
the tempestuous petticoat,” nor aught that “ kin- 
dles in clothes a wantonness,” but just the tranquil 
ingenuousness of a violet by a mossy stone. 

“ Phyllis,” he said, taking her hand kindly, I 
am glad — we are all glad, you see — that you have 
come to complete your father’s happiness, and to 
give us a surprise that is pleasanter than all the 
songs and toasts. And if I had known you all 
your life, like our good neighbors here, I should 


SOCIAL AND LYRICAL. 


123 


be taking an old friend’s privilege, and making 
you a pretty speech, that should be all the prettier 
for being true and all the truer for being pretty. 
Mr. Jekyll and I can see that you look like a 
flower; and now we are wafting for you to behave 
like a bird, and sing for us, as your father has 
promised.” 

‘^Ah! but you be good, Mr. Grayhurst, to say 
pleasant things to me, all out of your kindness ; 
and you may trust me, that they shall not make 
me foolish, sir. It pleases my father that I should 
sing for the neighbors on his birthday, one simple 
old song that we Midland folk love, because it is 
so old and so simple. I’ll try, if you’ll excuse me, 
sir.” 

And again the American noted that, while her 
words were to him, her thought and her glance were 
for Jekyll, in whose eyes the soft light deepened, 
as he smiled. 

Then Grayhurst called the audience to order, 
and the girl, standing by his side, sang with allur- 
ing sweetness, and with the guileless manner of a 
little child, the song of the Hawthorn Tree: — 


A Uegretto. 


-Qzdzrzv — 

I 



fS 1 N 

d r 

4 1 1 r 



* -j— J J - 



It was a maid of my coun-try, as 


r— i ^ . — — -H--T - 

r 1 n n 



d ! !— ! 

-d P — r f d 


t ^ ^ 

L u-kJ- ^ 

J # J 


she came by a hawthorn tree. As full of flow’rs as 


124 


AFTER HIS KIND. 



^ ' '-J 1 



r M ^ \ ^ A 0 ^ — 

# lTi 1 


t — b f L r 

1 j J p# i 

L : — L_ 1— 



might be seen, She marvell’dto see the tree so green. At 


1 

i 1 

! 

“■i "h "fV ^ 

d k -1 k- 


J # 1 

^ T r d' 

J r J T 

J ^ * 9 ^ 

9 J □ d 



last she ask - ed 

of the tree, How came this freshness 

1 K~ 


F ^ m 

J m . 1* # J 

1 N - 1 ^ 

1 1 \ 9 m 

- t — (? — 


.\ ^ 


0 0 0 



un - to thee. And 

ev - ’ry branch so fair and clean ? I 


d ^ 9 31 

, ! zp ip_ 

1 F 0 n 


1 Lr^ i 1 n 

9 

JJ 


mar - vel that you grow so green. 

“ The tree made answer by and by ; 

I have cause to grow triumphantly ; 

The sweetest dew that ever be seen 
Doth fall upon me to keep me green. 

“ Yea, quoth the maid, but when you grow 
You stand at hand at ev’ry blow, 

Of every man for to be seen : 

I marvel that you grow so green.” 

At this moment, a soldier, with an insolent 
face, entered the room by the lower door, and 
striding to the head of the table said, the bump- 
kins are convivial ; ” and so stood, staring at the 
singer. Phyllis trembled and stopped ; her fright- 
ened eyes sought for Jekyll ; and she crossed her 
hands on her open kerchief as if to still the flutter 
of her bosom. Then she turned, and would have 
escaped ; but Grayhurst reassured, her with a 
friendly smile and a few words inaudible to the 
others, and she made a brave effort : 


SOCIAL AND LYRICAL. 


125 


“ — Though many one take flowers from me, 

And many a branch out of my tree, 

I have such store they will not be seen. 

For more and more my twigs grow green. 

" — But how an’ they chance to cut thee down. 
And carry thy branches into the town ? 

Then they will never more he seen 
To grow again so fresh and green.” 

The soldier took some coins from his pocket, 
and deliberately selecting two half-crowns, ap- 
proached the startled creature, saying, “ Here, 
my beauty ! Buy a love-knot, and w'ear it for a 
soldier. If you are looking for a sweetheart, I’m 
your man.” 

Instinctively, moved by fear, the life-long habit 
of obedience, even by her native modesty and 
courtesy, Phyllis held out her hand and took the 
money, with wondering eyes. 

Devil Dick sprang to his feet, and hissed 
“ Damnation ! ” but Grayhurst checked him with 
a peremptory gesture, and smiling, took the coins 
from Phyllis. 

The stranger had returned to his place, and now 
took a seat at the table. Grayhurst followed him, 
and laying his hand on the man’s shoulder, set the 
money on the table before him, and looked him 
straight in the eyes. 

There was an ominous silence for a minute or 
two, but the stranger made no sign. 

Then Jekyll said, “Go on, Phyllis!” The girl 
looked to Grayhurst, who nodded to her pleas- 


126 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


antly; and again, with her hands on her bosom, 
and very pale, she sang : — 

“ — Though that you do, it is no boot ; 

Although they cut me to the root, 

Next year again I will be seen 
To bud my branches fresh and green. 

And you, fair maid, can not do so ; 

For when your beauty once does go. 

Then will it never more be seen. 

As I with my branches can grow green. 

“ The maid with that began to blush. 

And turn’d her from the hawthorn bush ; 

She thought herself so fair and clean. 

Her beauty still would ever grow green. 

“ But after this never I could hear 
Of this fair maiden anywhere. 

That ever she was in forest seen. 

To talk again with hawthorn green." 

As the girl sang, the soldier toyed with the 
coins, seemingly unconscious or scornful of the 
American on guard ; but when the last note was 
sung, and Phyllis lingered, trembling and con- 
fused, he suddenly strode over to her, and bru- 
tally thrust the money in her shuddering bosom. 

There was a sound as of the sharp stroke of a 
hammer, and the fellow went down with his arms 
in the air, falling backward over a chair; then 
Devil Dick took up his cigar, interrupted for the 
moment, and went on smoking. Simon Dudder 
led Phyllis from the room, soothing her ; and Gray- 
hurst stood contemplating the carcass. 


SOCIAL AND L YRICAL. 


27 


For several minutes the man lay unconscious. 
At last he opened his eyes, and tried to rise. The 
American raised him, and placed him in a chair. 
In falling he had cut his head against a corner of 
the table, and was bleeding freely. Grayhurst 
poured water on his own handkerchief, and bound 
it over the wound. 

“ Who struck me ?” said the fellow. What is 
your name ? ” 

“ Mr. Grayhurst. Who are you ? ” 

“Frederick Vylke, and your betters. My 
father is Sir Hector Vylke.” 

“ So much the worse for that noble family. 
Somebody has begotten a beast, and I hope you 
are a bastard. Now get up and go ! or I’ll throw 
you out into the road.” 

The man looked at the American — and went. 


When the company, quite discomfited, had dis- 
persed to their homes, and Jekyll, in a fiery mood, 
had mounted and spurred toward Wynhold, 
Grayhurst questioned the landlord when he came 
with the bed-room candle. 

“ This Sir Hector Vylke of the Castle, what is 
known of him, Toby? ” 

“Not much, sir. An offish party, as keeps 
hisself close ; Staffordshire man ; came to the 
title last year when his brother died. Sir Norman 
Vylke of Fkcknoe as was. Then this Sir Hector, 
a widower, brought his establishment over here. 


128 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


and just clapped the gates in the faces of the 
county people, as good as telling of ’em that their 
room was better than their company. But, Lord, 
sir! what could you expect? Sir Hector be’nt 
Midland quality ; and they do say the Vylkes 
started in the pottery line, — beer mugs and tea- 
pots, and sich. There’s a come-down for Flecknoe, 
sir — a crockery man a-snorin’ in Richard the 
Third’s bed ! ” 

“And Richard was so very particular. But 
this soldier, is he really Sir Hector’s son?” 

“Ay, sir! I make sure he’s the bad lot they 
tell of. Leastways, Bucky Boots says so, and 
Bucky he knows. Ruined a gamekeeper’s pretty 
daughter, and got flogged with a dog-whip o’ 
Sunday in the church porch ; the gal’s father did 
it. Stole away to London before his hide was 
healed; went plungin’ on the turf ; got among the 
Jews; took Sir Hector’s name in vain on a bit o’ 
queer paper ; sharped at cards at his club ; got 
caught and thrashed again by ‘ a man of honor ’ — 
the sort that never gets caught, you know, sir; 
tried to hide hisself at home ; but the governor 
met him at the stables, flung a check for a thou- 
sand in his face, kicked him from the kennels to 
the lodge, and cussed him clean out o’ sight. 
Then a lot of men of honor took him up; and 
when they’d done with him, he was a blind-drunk 
British warrior, with the Queen’s token in his fist — 
and that was all.” 


SOCIAL AND L YRICAL. 


129 


“And is it for the shame of this one that Sir 
Hector bars himself in at Flecknoe, or has he 
other brave boys ? ” 

“A fat smile and a fat wink met on Toby’s 
countenance, and seemed to have a confidential 
joke together, as he said, “ If you’ll kindly excuse 
me, sir, the matter of a minute ; ” and he left the 
room, only to return quickly, followed by a grin- 
ning bumpkin in a smock frock, with blacking on 
his nose. 

“ Tell Mr. Grayhurst your name, Bucky.” 

“Mr. Bucephalus Vylke, Esq. — Bucky for short, 
and no thanks.” 

“ Who be your mammy, my lad ? ” 

“ Nan, the Bouncer, and a low lot.” 

“ Now tell the gentleman who your father be.” 

Bucky Boots wagged one ear. 

“Well? ’’said Grayhurst. 

Bucky wagged the other ear. 

Grayhurst appealed to Toby with a look. 

“ Spell out his noble name, my boy, and put in 
the flourishes.” 

Bucky wagged both ears — a vigorous and start- 
ling performance. 

“ Bucky, you may go,” said Toby. 

“ Mr. Grayhurst, sir, there’s only one other 
human creeter in all these parts that can do that ; 
and that’s Sir Hector Vylke.” 

The American rose, and took his candle. 

“ Blood will tell ! ” he said. 


CHAPTER XI. 


MISTRESS AND MAID. 

I N the goodly chamber " that had once been 
Cicely’s, and now was hers, Barbara sat at the 
open casement in the forenoon, and fondled with 
her needle among the pretty nothings of ribbon 
and lace which were the familiar playthings of her 
fingers ; while Phyllis, neat-handed and soft, 
moved from place to place among her lady’s 
belongings, on serviceable cares intent. This 
apartment communicated, on the one hand, with 
the gallery and the buttress stair, and on the other 
with a dressing-room, formerly the peculiar snug- 
gery of Squire Marmaduke, who having “ a pretty 
taste” for astronomy, was accustomed to pursue 
his studies here ; and to this end he had connected 
the low window with the path that led to 
the stables, by a stationary ladder which still 
remained. 

Thus, without disturbing his guests or alarm- 
ing the maids, he could let himself out, as often 
as the humor seized him, to wander in the 
grounds, and, glass in hand, question the constel- 
lations. Here now was easy access, most inviting 


MISTRESS AND MAID, 


131 

to the midnight marauder ; but that fine product 
of civilization was unimaginable to the stolid vir- 
tue of Yawdley and Ausibel; and besides, a brace 
of stout shutters, armed with a bar of iron, stood 
bravely for the eighth commandment ; so Barbara 
slept without a panic. 

In this room, when they were in retreat, mis- 
tress and maid became comrades, and the exac- 
tions of discipline were relaxed : an arrangement 
timidly accepted by Phyllis at the instigation of 
Barbara, who had said, “ Elsewhere I know my 
place, and you know yours. But here let us be 
girls together ; for whom have I but you ? Poor 
old Pennyweight, she’s but a pillar of salt, forever 
looking back ; and Winifred — well yes, of course ; 
but that is different, you know.” 

And to Phyllis, who did her thinking with her 
heart, this essentially feminine way of putting 
things was conclusive, the inconsequential “ dif- 
erent” implying as much as a volume of differentia- 
tion could have expressed. So now they talked of 
the soldier’s exploit at the inn — Barbara exploring, 
with a woman’s keen and cruel probe, among the 
quivering feelings that underlay the brutal 
facts. 

‘‘ And when he did that (Ugh ! will the place 
ever be clean again ?) — what did you do ? ” 

Phyllis only shivered. 

“ Come here ! ” said Barbara. Now tell me, 
dear — show me.” 


132 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


“ What could I do, miss ? — Oh, the shame, the 
strange shame of it ! ” 

She moaned, and Barbara kissed her. 

“ Well ! ‘ somebody knocked him down : ’ so 
easy to a little temper and a little muscle. There 
he was under your feet. TheUy what did you do ? 
— Cried, no doubt : the red reptile might have 
been hurt. But I would have wiped my shoes on 
his mouth as he lay. And after that I should 
have been ashamed to look you in the face, Phyllis; 
for I should have known that you were ashamed 
of me. — Now, who was Somebody ? ” 

“ I did not see, miss; I could not see ; but they 
said it was Mr. Jekyll." 

“ No doubt ; such opportunities come handy to 
him. He would have done as much for me, or the 
bar-maid. And Mr. Grayhurst, where was he?” 

“ Dolly said he raised the man, and placed him 
in a chair, and helped him kindly.” 

“What! that Yankee interloper ?” 

“ And then called him a beast and a bastard, 
and pitched him out of the porch.” 

Barbara laughed, and clapped her hands. 

“ Ah 1 the original, ingenious darling 1 Dick, 
with his clumsy British methods, could only 
‘ punch ’ the miscreant ; but this American artist 
found a way to pillory and pelt his whole family. 
— But what became of the money?” 

The girl drew a handkerchief from her bosom and 
unfolding it, showed the two half-crowns. 


M/STJ^BSS AND MAID. 133 

“ At first,” she said, “ I forgot them ; but when 
I was undressing at bed-time I found them here.” 

Barbara stared : “ And you actually put them 
bade into your bosom, and kept them for your 
own ! Here’s a ridiculous extinguisher truly to my 
fine fire-works. I’ll give you a guinea for your 
five splendid shillings ; and then you can take 
them with my compliments to your two heroes, 
and we shall all have some fun.” 

“ If you please, Miss Lynn,” said the girl, (and 
her lips trembled), “ I would rather keep them.” 

“ But I tell you I will give you a guinea for 
them.” 

“ I thought,” said Phyllis, I would like to drop 
these two half-crowns into the poor-box at church. 
I did not know what else to do with them.” 

Barbara covered her face with her hands, and so 
remained for some moments ; then she bowed 
over the girl’s hand, and kissed it. 

“Please don’t! ’’said Phyllis. “You did not 
understand, miss ; — and you will not speak of 
this ? ” 

“Not even to Mr. Jekyll?” 

“ Oh ! No, no ! ” 

“ And why not ? Why should he care ? ” 

“Why should he care?” repeated Phyllis. 
“ He would have done as much for the bar-maid.” 

“You are a thousand times prettier than the 
bar-maid,” said Barbara. 

“ Would the gentlemen thank you for saying 


134 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


SO, miss t My father is only a poor plain man, but 
I’m sure he would never think of that. And oh ! 
but I’m glad he was not there.” 

So are two men and a soldier, that we wot of ; 
and there is another who may be glad he was not 
there.” 

Phyllis looked puzzled : “ Another ? ” 

“ Angels and ministers of grace ! ” cried Barbara, 

but this is supernatural simplicity.” 

“ Is it Kit, miss ? ” 

“ Who should it be, but your love-lorn gipsy? 
The two gentlemen were content to chastise 
that fellow neatly, after the fashion of their class ; 
your father would have belabored him painfully, 
after his fashion ; but Kit Abershaw would have 
murdered him.” 

You can never be serious, miss! Poor Kit is 
silly, -^but wicked or dangerous ? Oh, no ! The 
Squire does praise him; and Mr. Jekyll, he likes 
him well.” 

“ And you and he are sweethearting, Phyllis.” 

“ Not quite that, if I must explain. Poor Kit is 
fond on me, and foolish, and ’tis hard to make him 
see that I could never be his lover — only kindly 
like ; for he is good to me ; and often he is that 
lonesome and down-hearted, I am sorry. And ’tis 
a pity you should mistrusten him, miss, for he 
would serve you faithful.” 

For your sake ? ” 

“ For your own sake, and for Mr. Jekyll’s.” 


MISTRESS AND MAID. 135 

“How does it concern Mr. Jekyll? For Mr. 
Thorpe’s, you mean.” 

“ He said for Mr. Jekyll’s,” said the girl simply ; 
and Barbara changed the subject. 

“ Phyllis,” she said, “ does Abershaw quite 
understand that you care for him no more than you 
have expressed to me, just now ? ” 

“ Sweethearts, they kiss. Miss Barbara ; and Kit 
never offers to kiss me. So by that I know 
he understands, though his fondness be stronger 
than his wits.” 

“ Phyllis, did Mr. Jekyll ever kiss you?” 

The girl winced, and turned pale, then flushed. 

“ Am I so common, Miss Lynn ? ” 

“Oh no, dear ! No, no! But ’tis a bad habit 
our gentlemen have — especially in the country, 
where it is so dull for them at this season. And 
Mr. Jekyll is apt to do startling things to amuse 
himself. I dare say he’d kiss me, if he imagined 
it might annoy Mr. Thorpe. So, if he should 
ever kiss you, dear, don’t tell Abershaw : and if 
Kit should suspect and question you, — lie^ like an 
angel ! ” 

“ But shall I tell you, miss ? ” 

“ Never! — that is, of course not. What is it to 
me? — Unless you think I might advise you. Yes, 
always come to me.” 

Here a full stop : both young women watching 
from opposite sides of the same thought, “I won- 
der if .” 


136 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


“By the by/' said Barbara, “ Mr. Jekyll and 
Mr. Grayhurst seem to grow fonder of each other 
day by day : an odd thing in men ; well nigh im- 
possible, I fancy, if both were English." 

“Ay! but ’tis a pleasant thing to see, miss. 
Father, he do say they be like hearty boys to- 
gether." 

“ Like kinsmen, the Squire thinks." 

“But kin they do nag so; and these are always 
kind." 

“Yet one must take the lead. Which is it in 
this case ? " 

“ My father says the Englishman always takes 
it, but the American always it." 

“And the likeness, Phyllis! — they are alike. 
How, I cannot tell ; it is not in face, nor in voice, 
nor in manner. When they are together, it is 
gone ; but either, separately, reminds me of the 
other." 

“ Mayhap it be their ways^ miss — such little 
ghosty signs as old folks love to find. Mrs. 
Judith, she did always say that Mr. Jekyll ^ coaxed ’ 
like his grandfather; and now she do say that 
Mr. Grayhurst ‘listens’ like Squire Ralph. I call 
it just ghosting, miss — a fondness of the old, 
when they come close enough to the grave to 
look in." 

“ But when the spirits appear to you and me, 
that are young, Phyllis ? " 

“All the same, ’tis love, miss; and we just go 
ghosting." 


MISTRESS AND MAID. 


137 


‘^Go gnosting!” repeated Barbara, dreamily. 
“ Just as my love goes ghosting, when I lie here 
at night, and see dead Cicely watching at this 
window for her bonny young Meriden, only to 
shiver and moan as her boozy Boultbee comes 
floundering through the snow. If Meriden had 
only been a scamp and Boultbee a vicar, the soft 
thing might have died in her bed, warm and 
respectable like me.” 

“ I doubt 'twas dreams, miss. ’Twould be 
strange if you didna dream of the poor soul, with 
your young heart beating strong and joyful in the 
very room where her heart broke, so long and 
long ago.” 

“Oh, oh! you blind idiot!” 

Phyllis stared, all consternation ; and Barbara 
laughed : 

“Oh! not you, dear; you are all eyes. I was 
thinking of Cicely.” 

“ Ah ! but if you could see her true and plain, 
as Bessie Mann did see her, that night at the 
lych-gate, your heart would just ache for the pity 
of it.” 

“And has Bessie taken to ghosting, too? I 
supposed she was of sterner stuff.” 

“That was her father’s doings, miss — a hard, 
churchless man, always mocking abroad, and free 
with the strap at home ; and he did bring his lass 
to think that a churchyard and a stone-quarry 
were all as one in the dark.” 


138 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


But what did the girl imagine she saw?” 

“The Snow Bride, at the lych-gate, tossing her 
cold white arms in her trouble, and filling her 
cold white bosom with snow.” 

“With snow! on a fine moonlight night in 
June?” 

“Could it ever be moonlighter June to her, 
miss? 

“ But it must have been so to Bessie. Where 
did she find her snow?” 

“ In the story, miss ; the snow is always falling 
in that cruel story.” 

“Ah, Phyllis, Phyllis! May God deal with the 
man who would leave your heart out in the 
cold.” 

The girl stood gravely silent ; then she said : 

“ Bessie Mann, she will mock at ghosts no more ; 
she did shiver and sigh and moan, poor thing, 
days and nights did she, till her father stormed, 
and promised her the strap, if ever he were 
shamed in the town with talk of her fooling ; and 
so, for her sake, Janet Drum and me, we did hold 
our tongues. But Mr. Grayhurst, miss, how 
could he know?” 

“ Mr. Grayhurst ! ” 

“ He asked me once was Mann’s lass ill ; and if 
she did want for aught I must come to him, he 
said.” 

“Winifred! Grayhurst and Winifred — why 
not?” 


MISTRESS AMD MAID. 


139 


No, not to Miss Blythe, miss — to him, he 
said.” 

And has Bessie come to her wits again ? ” 

“ She be bright enough in most ways. Only 
one thing troubles her ; and that is strange, too, 
for Bessie were never silly.” 

“ And what is that ? ” 

“ She says the poor lady had lost a pretty white 
ribbon, from the left sleeve of her gown.” 

How did she know that ? ” 

“ There was such a bow on the other sleeve ; 
and it troubles the lass more than all the horror 
and the fear. I doubt if she be right in her wits, 
miss.” 

But Barbara had risen, and was pacing the floor, 
restless. 

“Yes,” she said, “ that is strange. I do not 
quite understand. There are bows of ribbon on 
the sleeves of a white gown of mine, in that chest 
of drawers. Get it ; and let us see if she can 
mean a thing like that.” 

Phyllis brought the gown. 

“ A bow like this one, perhaps,” said Barbara. 

“ I fancy 'twas, miss. And the other was gone 
— like this.” 

Barbara returned to the window: 

“ Perhaps there w'as no other,” said she. “ I for- 
get what was the fashion of that period.” 


CHAPTER XII. 


LADY GOODLUCK AT HOME. 

C HRISTIE BREME, that homely handmaid, in 
whom ugliness and goodness strove, with forces 
so matched and mixed that one might say of her 
that her ugliness was lovely and her goodness 
grotesque — Christie had been to Yawdley on one 
of Lady Goodluck’s pious errands ; and Winifred, 
taking the maid’s place in the dairy, with sleeves 
rolled up to the elbows, had imparted the charm of 
her deft and dainty fingers to pats of golden 
butter, singing among the pans. 

And now Christie had returned, bringing a 
child with her, Mutzie’s bosom friend and Wini- 
fred’s favorite trouble — all love and wilfulness, all 
tears and fun, a curly-pated epitome of surprises 
and problems. 

“ Oh, but she be fine and wicked ! ” said Chris- 
tie. ‘‘ We mun just soap the mouth o’ her, that 
foul it be — God forgie us! ” 

What did she say, Christie ? ” 

Dom it! she says, bold as brass; just Dom 
it ! plump and plain as Balaam’s ass — the kitten ! ” 
Winifred presented to the intent and wistful 


lADV GOODL UCK A T HOME. 1 4 1 

gaze of the child, a mild little Vision of Judg- 
ment. 

“ Who taught you that, Maidie ? ’’ 

The child's lips quivered, and her small bosom 
trembled with the coming storm. 

“ ’Twere Devil Dick,” said she. 

With hands devoutly clasped, and heavenward 
squint, Christie stood like some disfigured saint : 

“And she winna lie,” she said. “What's 
a-comin' now ? ” 

“ Mr, Jekyll would never be so bad, Maidie. 
He would not teach you wicked words.” 

“ Nay, but mine own self, I lamed it, lady. 
All the same, 'twere Devil Dick ; and he be gen- 
try.” 

“Tell me, Maidie; when was this? ” 

“ 'Twere yesterday, in the Manse lane. Jack 
and me we were playin' in the road ; and Devil 
Dick he comes clapperty-racket round the turn, and 
down the hill ; and wow ! down goes me, and up 
goes Devil Dick and his four hoofs — one, two, 
three, four! — I did count 'em, lad}^, in the air. 
Then that crazy horse he stands up straight on 
his two hind legs and dances ; and Devil Dick 
he rolls off in the road, and runs to me, and Dom 
it ! he says, fine and fierce like a soldier; and I 
laughed. Then he did feel my head, and my 
arms and my legs, and he did kiss me ; and then 
he shook me good, and I cried ; and then he kissed 
me again, and did give me a half-crown ; and then 


142 


AFTER HIS KIND, 


I did laugh, and say Dom it! and then he 
laughs and runs away, after his crazy horse. 
And that’s all ; and I want to say Dom it ! ” 

“ But ’tis ugly and wicked, and only ugly and 
wicked people say it.” 

“Oh, oh ! Devil Dick he’s an angel, and gentry 
too.” 

“ But that was his temper, you know.” 

“Ay! / know; ’tis just heart-breakin’. And 
I’m sorry if it do get into the gentry even, poor 
things.” 

“ Now mind me, Maidie ! If you ever say Dom 
it again, I shall lock up Mutzie when you come 
to Brignal with your dreadful language ; and I 
shall severely punish Mr. Jekyll.” 

Maidie was tearful and silent. Then she said, 
“ I love Mutzie, and I love Devil Dick, and I 
would like to say Dom it ; but you know best, 
lady ; and so I will never, never ! But oh ! it’s 
hard.” 

“ Yes, dear, ’tis very hard ; and you are my own 
good child to try so bravely. Now Christie shall 
wash your mouth, and then you may play with 
Mutzie.” 

A man’s voice in the porch had caught Christie’s 
ear, and now she returned from reconnoitring, 
with a face of news. It was only the Vicar, but 
Christie’s face expressed carnage, pestilence and 
famine. 

“’Tis just the Vicar, mum — God forgie me 


LAD Y GOODL UCK A T HOME. 143 

and Mutzie ; we ever do snap at his legs. ’Tis 
our own bad hearts, I doubt ; and he clergy in 
holy orders. That it may please Thee to ’lumi- 
nate all priests and deacons, that both by their 
preachin’ and livin’ they may show it accordin’. 
Amen ! ” 

“ Amen ! — Did Mutzie bite him ? ” 

“ How could she, poor thing, and he in top- 
boots ? From the crafts and assaults of the Devil 
— Sure I’d go just so, mum ; ye look sweet enough 
for a bishop.” 

And, ^‘accoutred” as she was, ever neat and 
fresh and fragrant, with only the replacing of the 
sleeves over the shapely arms, Winifred went 
to receive her visitor, whom she found in the 
porch. 


“ I wonder at your garden. Miss Blythe — its 
profusion of various beauty. You have, I imagine, 
the horticultural idiosyncrasy.” 

“ I fear those be but fine words for a plain mat- 
ter, Mr. Thorpe.” 

“You prefer to term it luck, perhaps, or skill.” 

“Not luck, for I do not believe in that; nor 
skill, for I have but little, consciously. Suppose 
we call it love. I think I know the ways and 
wants of my flowers, as I know the moods of my 
friends — ^by loving them, and because they love 


me. 


144 


AFTER HIS KIND, 


“ Your friends, you mean.” 

My flowers, I mean.” 

Quite so! an amiable fancy, but not for plain 
prose.” 

“ On the contrary, a familiar fact — a simple 
question, on the one hand, of food and drink and 
little friendly comforts, with tender nursing now 
and then ; and on the other, of happy thriving, 
and grateful recompenses of color and fragrance.” 

“ So that if you should leave home for a month, 
you imagine your flowers would be sorry?” 

“ Why not ? I know they would suffer.” 

“ But if it is, as you say, a simple question of 
food and drink, and the rest, would not another 
hand please them as well — engage their vegetable 
affections, to follow your pretty conceit ? — even if 
the hand should not happen to be shapely, and 
soft and fair.” 

Winifred caught the man’s eye, and coolly chal- 
lenged him : 

“ The inference is that you admire my hands, 
Mr. Thorpe. But we were speaking of flowers ; 
and I hoped to lead you beyond the rake and the 
watering-pot into the heart of the matter, what 
you call ‘ the rest of it : ’ that is, the love, the sym- 
pathy, and the tender nursing. Did you ever see 
a drooping plant? — a most pathetic object.” 

Thorpe supposed that a shrug and a smile 
would suffice for so light a question. 

“ Of course,” said Winifred ; “ having two eyes. 


LADY GOODL UCK A T HOME. 


145 


and not being physically blind, you naturally 
imagine that you see whatever you may idly look 
at. That is the comfortable fallacy we all enter- 
tain, until we are led to look into things. Now, 
here was I, born and reared on a farm, and fondly 
fancying that I had often seen a cow or a 
rabbit.” 

“ When it was only an ox or a cat, in the dis- 
tance,” said Thorpe. 

“In the distance: thank you, yes; and it 
might as well have been a camel or a cow, until 
I drew near to it, to consider its ways, to com- 
mune with it, and to learn of it — insight, for 
example.” 

“ Which is to suppose,” said the Vicar, “ that 
you have been more fortunate than that other 
amiable person who approached the study of 
natural history on your lines of observation. You 
will remember that she — it must have been a lady 
— never proceeded to cultivate the acquaintance 
of a dear gazelle, and to consider its ways, but 
when it came to know her well, and love her, it 
was sure to die ; which must have been very try- 
ing, seeing that at first, and at a distance, she 
could probably not distinguish a gazelle from a 
tinker’s donkey.” 

“ Now, that is very droll,” said Winifred; “the 
pathetic experience of that tedious young person 
becomes low comedy under your playful touch. 
Nevertheless, you never saw a drooping plant ; or 


46 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


you mistook it for a weed, from your distance. 
I should like to show you one, but we have none 
at Brignal. You will find an interesting example, 
however, in a cottage at Yawdley.” 

“ Is this another allegory, my lady ? Some 
languishing parishioner, under the similitude of a 
wilted herb ? It is all very well to be a good 
Samaritan, but why do you try to intercept me 
with a parable, as if you feared I would pass by 
on the other side ? ” 

“ There’s no telling. You are such an /^//-certain 
priest.” 

Thorpe laughed : “ If the Samaritan had said 
so good a thing, the priest would have staid to 
make his acquaintance, history would have felt 
the difference, and a Midland vicar, eighteen 
centuries later, might have had fair play. But 
who has been making a trip to Jericho? ” 

“ I was thinking of the Widow Dale.” 

“ The bed-ridden sister of that sentimental 
pedagogue, Silas Parr. Yes, that is an interesting 
case.” 

So the Levite thought.” 

“ Extreme affliction, I am told, with impressive 
courage and resignation.” 

“ So the priest remarked, perhaps. Ah ! Mr. 
Thorpe, if you would only give yourself fair play. 
But you leave your oil and wine in your closet.” 

Winifred rose and approached the steps, hearing 
Mutzie and the child in the garden, and the Vicar’s 


LAD Y GOODL UCK A T HOME. 


147 


glance followed her thoughtfully. Then he 
changed the subject : 

“ Who is your small visitor, Miss Blythe? ’’ 

“ Little Maidie Dale, the widow’s child. Per- 
haps it was her presence that brought the mother 
to my mind.” 

“ Ah ! I remember — an engaging youngheathen, 
with surprising accomplishments. I asked her 
once if she could say her creed, and she gave me 
an intrepid version of her own — a curious jingle 
of old Romish rhymes.” 

‘‘ That must have been her Little Creed,” said 
Winifred. 

“ You know it then ? ” 

“I learned it from Maidie; and it impressed 
me as quite a nice little creed for a bright little 
mind, struggling with big questions. Would you 
recognize it ? — 

“ Little creed can I need. 

Kneel before Our Ladie’s knee : 

Candle light, candle burn ; 

Our Ladie prayed to her dear Son, 

That we may all to heaven come. 

, Little Creed. Amen ! 

“ And you should hear her say grace over a 
bowl of bread and milk: no parrot-like per- 
formance — ‘ For what we are about to receive,’ 
and so on, mechanical and irreverent ; but Her- 
rick’s quaint and tender ‘Grace for a Child,’ 


148 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


delivered with a child’s sincerity and under- 
standing : 

“ Here a little child I stand, 

Heaving up my either hand. 

Cold as paddocks though they be, 

Here I lift them up to Thee ; 

For a benison to fall 
On our meat, and on us all. 

“ If the amiable Anacreon of the vicarage ever 
had a Maidie to say that grace for him, he must 
have rejoiced that he had the grace and sweetness 
to write it,” said Winifred. 

“And you taught her that?” 

“ Not I ; it was Mr. Grayhurst’s happy thought.” 

“ Our Yankee Crichton — more admired than 
admirable, I suspect.” 

“Which means that you do not admire him, 
Mr. Thorpe.” 

“ And that you do. Miss Blythe. But even I 
am not insensible to the versatility of his accom- 
plishments. He flits on playful pinions between 
real life and fiction ; and hovers, with a charm that 
is all his own, over other people’s affairs.” 

“ I have heard him speak of you,” said Winifred, 
“ in terms not only more generous but much less 
elaborate, quite as if he had never thought of 
them till then.” 

“ Then Mr. Grayhurst does not dislike me ; 
that is kind.” 

“ I did not say that he does not dislike you ; 


LADY GOODLUCK A T HOME, 


149 


and I am surely not at liberty to say that he does. 
He has not taken me into his confidence — even if 
he has determined the personal question in his 
own mind.” 

“ Quite so ! If the man had taken any one into 
his confidence, I fancy his reception at Overstoke 
and Brignal might have been less reckless of those 
requirements of common' prudence which are sup- 
posed to prevail in well-regulated communities.” 

“ Such as ? ” 

“ A challenge on the threshold : Who is he ? 
What is he ? And to what end does he pursue 
genealogical researches in remote English parishes, 
whereunto the Yankee adventurer has not hitherto 
penetrated ? ” 

“ Now those are pointed questions,” said Wini- 
fred ; “ why not apply them sharply to himself ? I n 
his alien ignorance he might object at first, but you 
will have the art to reconcile him to the demands 
of our national manners. Or why not question 
Jekyll? Probably Mr. Grayhurst is not aware that 
in an English parish the vicar is supposed to be 
everybody’s friend and confidant ; and he may 
have hastened to unbosom himself to a reprobate. 
But you should not take the matter to heart.” 

“ If I had dreamed. Miss Blythe, that you had 
so taken to heart, not only the matter but the 
marly I would not have broken the silence that 
delicacy enjoins in such a case.” 

The woman could not forbid the momentary 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


150 

flush and pallor that betrayed her indignation, but 
the lady had her scorn under better control. 

“The traditions of dignity,” she said, “that 
should hedge the clergy are so impartial that the 
revelation of a ridiculous vicar must always appear 
more shocking than funny ; and you are, at this 
moment, making yourself ridiculous, Mr. Thorpe.” 

The Vicar was for a moment thrown into con- 
fusion, but presently rallied and recovered his dis- 
cretion. 

“ You take me too seriously,” he said. “ Never- 
theless you are not wholly wrong. There is an 
endemic of folly, and you should not think it 
strange if I am infected, although the peculiar 
symptoms in my case may offend you. We have 
all been making ourselves ridiculous about this 
phenomenal mule-driver from the diggins. I think 
he said he had been a mule-driver ; and we are 
quite prepared to believe that he was an artist, 
even in that unusual line ; in fact, it would be a 
pleasure to see him driving mules now. But why 
the possession of so eccentric an accomplishment 
should be accepted as a patent of nobility, and a 
passport to our bed-rooms and our bosoms, is 
really more than I can explain — without incurring 
the risk of displeasing, not only the fair mistress 
of Brignal, but my enchanted friends at the Manor, 
and the enraptured tapsters and horse-boys at the 
inn.” 

“Well, let us leave those Ephraims to their 


LADY GOODL UCK A T HOME. 1 5 1 

idol,” said Winifred, “ and turn to a less exaspe- 
rating topic. — Mr. Jekyll, for example. Have you 
seen him ? I have hoped he would call at Brignal 
to-day, and take a message for me to Wynhold.” 

“ I fear we differ as to the degrees of exaspera- 
tion,” said the Vicar, rising to take his leave. “ For 
my part, I place our friend with the diabolic affix, 
in the superlative decidedly.” 

“Truly the world goes wrong with you to-day. 
And what has our poor Dick been doing now?” 

“ Only letting himself loose again, to make 
night hideous ; fooling with fire-arms under my 
windows ; charging through toll-gates, with war- 
whoops, that only an American adept could have 
taught him ; and clattering over Yawdley High- 
street at midnight, in a style that could not fail to 
impress the simple villagers with admiration for 
his fine animal spirits and his generous conception 
of manly sport.” 

“ And this was last night ? I am very sorry.” 

“Yes, you may hardly look for Mr. Jekyll to- 
day. No doubt he sweetly sleeps, after his inter- 
esting but exhausting exercises.” 

“ Judy, dear,” said Winifred, “ what was it you 
said last evening? — that Mr. Grayhurst and Dick 
had met Simon Dudder in the road?” 

“ What dosto mean, dearie ? Ay ! I mind 
now. Simon, he did come upon the gentlemen 
riding Wynhold ways ; and Maister Dick did bid 


152 


AFTER HIS KIND, 


him pass the word to the inn people as they munna 
look for Mr. Grayhurst home back, seeing they 
two would bide the night at the Croft together.” 

“ But for all that, Dick went ‘tearing’ as you 
call it, from Wynhold gate to Yawdley High- 
street at midnight ; and now the Vicar spoils a day 
for me, with the folly and the shame of it.” 

“ The Vicar he can spoil the sweetest Sunday 
that iver it took the Lord six days to make. But 
what is all this blather? Sure Mr. Grayhurst 
were wi’ him ; so it canna be.” 

“ And why not ? What do we know of Mr. 
Grayhurst?” 

“ Ah, my bonnie ! Happen it’s little to know, 
but much to feel. The likes o’ him bring their 
letters in their faces, and find their friends where 
they bide. I’m fain to see the love that binds 
they lads to one another, and to thee ; and if 
Maister Dick would do aught to trouble thee iver, 
it winna be when the American’s a-by.” 

Winifred kissed the wrinkled cheek, and smiling 
turned away. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


KITH AND KIN.— PLAYING WITH FIRE. 

B arbara had gone with Jekyll to the lodge, 
with instructions for Kit Abershaw as to 
certain parcels, more or less precious, that were to 
come by the Bolingstone coach ; and Grayhurst 
(ever a welcome guest at Overstoke) sat with the 
Squire in the library, and was entertained with the 
topic that never failed to engage his interest, the 
unfolding of the Shustoke chronicles. 

“ Y eoman, squire, lord of the manor, sheriff for 
the shire,” Grayhurst recapitulated ; “ but no 
Shustoke of high degree.” 

‘‘No : justices and gentlewomen at best ; never 
a title, and never a black sheep — but one, and he 
was a vicar.” 

“ Unlucky in vicars ! ” said Grayhurst ; “and 
who was the other ? ” 

“The Reverend Jasper Shustoke: canon, chan- 
cellor, archdeacon, and chaplain to the Second 
George. He translated ^sop’s Fables, a respect- 
able exploit that must have taken his acquaintance 
by surprise, seeing that he had scandalized a lady, 
Mistress Anna Maria Mordaunt, of whom he was 


AFTER HIS KIND, 


IS4 

supposed to be enamored, by dedicating to her a 
licentious and bombastic paraphrase of the Song 
of Solomon. It is not elating to read that, as a 
divine, Jasper Shustoke was entitled to no respect ; 
and that he owed his luck in church preferments 
to his political odes and satires.” 

“ Jekyll has told me of the Reverend Jasper,” 
said Grayhurst; “ and regarding him as% baleful 
luminary in the otherwise beneficent system of 
Shustoke, I have found him so interesting that I 
have followed his trail through the memoirs, in 
the hope of accounting for him, according to 
genesis. Do you know who his mother was? ” 

“ One Mistress Philippa Progers, I believe.” 

And who was Progers? ” 

'‘An officer of the household of Charles the 
Second — whatever that may signify. We have 
no more personal account of him.” 

“ Ah, now,” said Grayhurst, " I may mount my 
faithful hobby, and prance triumphantly. Edward 
Progers had been page to Charles the First, and 
was made groom of the bed-chamber to the 
Prince of Wales, to whom that apartment was 
important, you remember. In his official capacity 
Progers became the confidant of the Merry Mon- 
arch, and ministered to the royal caprices with 
equal zeal and finesse. Elizabeth Wells was one 
of that delectable group of damsels whose por- 
traits, sketched with a free hand, adorn the pages 
of Pepys and Grammont ; — maids of honor, they 


KITH AND KIN— TLA YING WITH FIRE. 155 

were styled in the broad humor of that period ; 
or king’s mistresses, when no joke was meant. 
His Majesty was not ungrateful, and for his 
delicate functions the superserviceable Progers 
was rewarded with the hand of the compliant 
Wells, who being stupid and ‘looking sheepish,’ 
although she ‘ walked like a goddess,’ had begun 
to hang heavy on the royal hands. Hence your 
Philippa Progers, who came upon the scene with 
some precipitation, and disclosed in time a family 
likeness to the king, so remarkable that every- 
body, except her mother, noticed it. When 
Philippa became Mistress Shustoke, she seems to 
have done her best to commemorate what she 
owed to Charles the Second, by transmitting his 
gifts and graces to the Reverend Jasper Shustoke : 
quod erat demonstrandum." 

“ Neatly put ! ” said the Squire ; “ but hardly, I 
should have supposed, in the American line of 
research.” 

“You little know us. Squire. Every other 
American in England is a Japhet in search of his 
forefathers, and nothing in the nature of pedi- 
gree is foreign to him. But now, sir, tell me of 
the Curzons. What is the tie between the Shus- 
tokes and Curzons? ” 

“ That is, between Winifred and me,” said the 
Squire, smiling slyly, as Grayhurst studied intent- 
ly the pattern of a rug. 

“True,” he said; “the question in that form 


156 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


has more of personal interest ; and Miss Blythe, 
I suppose, represents the Curzon connection.” 

“Yes, Winifred’s mother, Ruth Curzon, a gen- 
tlewoman of the finest type, could trace her 
descent in the direct line from Roger de Curzon, 
who held the Crochesalle lands at the Doomsday 
Survey. I have your interest in^heredity, Gray- 
hurst ; and at times I entertain myself with the 
fancy that I discover in the mind and temper of 
our dear Winifred — in her serious enthusiasms and 
her persuasive loyalty — traces of the influence of 
Joyce and Mary Curzon.” 

“The names are new to me,” said Grayhurst ; 
“ what influence do they suggest ? ” 

“A grim one in the case of Joyce, for she was 
burned at the stake in the reign of Bloody Mary. 
She was the daughter of Thomas Curzon of Crox- 
all. The intrepid heretic is described as a lady of 
superior presence and daintily nurtured, addicted 
to gay apparel, and such like vanities. 

“ Mary Curzon, Countess of Sackville, was gov- 
erness to the children of Charles the First, and 
discharged her trust with such prudence and ten- 
der devotion that both Houses of Parliament 
voted her a public funeral at her death, and she 
was buried with much pomp in Westminster 
Abbey, although her husband was an impetuous 
royalist ; and royalists were becoming unpopular. 

“ Katharine, another daughter of Sir George 
Curzon of Croxall, married Gilbert Thacker, 


KITH AND KIN— PL A VING WITH FIRE. 157 

grandson of that infamous Thomas Thacker who, 
as steward of Cromwell, Earl of Essex, figured as 
a clever tool in the scandalous business of sup- 
pressing the Religious Houses ; and in 1654 Dor- 
othy Thacker was married to Randolph Shustoke 
of Overstoke, in holy orders. 

“Thus you get the connection between Shus- 
tokes and Curzons ; and we are happy in having, 
in the gracious mistress of Brignal, a charm to 
‘ kepe kyn kinde’. As for my American name- 
sakes, I have heard my father say that a Shus- 
toke of Wynhold emigrated in the reign of George 
the .First.” 

“ No doubt the original Maryland Richard,” 
said Grayhurst, “whom I find in the Wynhold 
register, enrolled as a great-grandson of your 
Randal and Mary. That is the only glimpse I 
get of him here ; but in the notes of my friend 
Julian Shustoke he reappears in Maryland, and 
marries Johanna Carden.” 

“Johanna! did you say?” 

“Johanna. Is not the name English? ” 

“Yes, though uncommon. But it is the coin- 
cidence that impresses me. Jekyll’s mother, born 
at Wynhold, was a Johanna.” 

“ I have another coincidence for you, my dear 
sir, which you will find more impressive. A 
grandson of Richard and Johanna sailed from 
Baltimore for France, but with the purpose of 
making his way to Yawdley and Overstoke, in 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


158 

search of his grandfathers people. The ship 
must have foundered at sea, for no tidings ever 
came of crew or passenger ; like the ‘ Jolly Briton’ 
in Sydney Dobell’s ballad — 

“ ‘ How’s my boy — my boy ? 

What care I for the ship, sailor } 

I was never aboard her.^ 

Be she afloat or be she aground, 

Sinking or swimming, I’ll be bound 
Her owners can afford her ! 

I say. How’s my boy } ’ 

— “ ‘ Every man on board went down, 

Every man aboard her ! ' 

“ Squire, that boy’s name was Devil Dick 
Shustoke.” 

“ Well, here I am again ! ” cried Jekyll, running 
in merrily. “ You must have thought I was lost.” 


Neat-handed Phyllis, her light labors done, sat 
at the window in Barbara’s chamber and surveyed 
the peaceful prospect, looking abroad over the 
ancestral farms, topping bosky eminences ; over 
the cunning cottages, set upon heathy knolls ; 
over the fragrant herbage, flecked with loitering 
cattle and sheep ; over the sober homesteads, 
embosomed in the farther vale ; over the burn- 
ished breast-plate of the mere, and the crested 
woods of Brignal Hurst, and the glancing course 
of Giddyburn ; over the twin towers that flanked 


KITH AND KIN.— FLA YING WITH FIRE. 159 

the grim gate of Flecknoe ; and beyond, to where 
the penciled spires of Ausibel and Yawdley lifted 
high their aureoled crosses ; — and all that Phyllis 
saw was a man and a woman idling in the grass. 

Not by any defect of vision, for hers were the 
eyes of a rural maid, trained to great country 
scopes, and quick to discover a familiar face on 
the box of the Ausibel coach as it turned the 
edge of the wood at Wynhold, a mile beyond the 
lodge. But now she had set their focus by the 
quest of her heart, to read by distant signals of 
lips and hands the words she could not hear. 
And this was what she noted : 

On a knoll beyond the mere, where a dead tree 
had been felled, Barbara sat on a stone, her back 
against the prostrate trunk, her garden hat tossed 
in the grass beside her; while Jekyll, stretched 
on the sward supine, lay with his hands locked 
under his head, and watched the sailing clouds, 
as he listened shrewdly to the disclosures of his 
companion — an eager spring of talk, running 
brook-like, and like a brook capricious. 

The spot was secluded, and treacherous by its 
very seclusion ; for the thicket of privet that 
screened it on the three sides, from the highway 
and the avenue and the footpath by the mere, 
betrayed it by a cunning vista to the one window 
where now two steadfast eyes were trained upon 
it. And the maid at the window, watching her 
lady at the mere, ‘ took down ’ in the stenography 


i6o AFTER HIS KIND. 

of her own emotions and instincts the language 
of movement and gesture : the fine action of the 
head — now proudly poised, now petulantly tossed 
in pretty jerks like a fowl’s, now fixed in a plaint- 
ive repose ; the sensitive responses and eager 
insistance of the hands — now clasped, now clenched, 
now playfully parted, all fist or all fingers. 

Presently the girl, listening more and more 
intently, discovered a familiar pantomime, and 
began to interpret it, as Barbara, gazing skyward 
and stretching forth her hands, opened and closed 
them, with the action of one who catches some- 
thing that is softly falling ; and Jekyll, changing 
his posture, reclined in an attitude of roused 
attention, and followed her doings and her words. 
It was as though she filled her hands with snow, 
now from the air, now from the ground, and hid 
it in her bosom, again and again folding it there, 
fondling it there, as if it were some naked helpless 
thing. Now she arose, and moved a few paces 
away from Jekyll, gliding in a solemn ghostly 
fashion, and slowly waving her arms aloft ; then 
suddenly she turned, clapping her hands merrily, 
as she ran to throw herself on the grass again, 
laughing ; — and Phyllis, shuddering, turned away. 

‘‘ Ah ! however can a lady be so hard, so evil ? 
— to mock that pitiful story. And ’twas I that 
told her ; and it made me cry. Better be soft 
and foolish like us, than clever and cruel, like 
that.” 


KITH AND KIN—PLA YING WITH FIRE, i6i 


“Oh ! oh ! ” she cried, “ oh, see ! ” — as Barbara 
produced a bow of white ribbon, and placing it 
on her right sleeve at the elbow, displayed it to 
Jekyll; then changing it to the other arm, and 
holding it there for a moment, she let it fall in 
the grass. Jekyll, who was now all attentive and 
alert, seemed to question her ; and she replied as 
one perplexed, with roving glances searching in 
the grass. 

Phyllis started from her place, stirred and trou- 
bled by a sudden fancy ; then she went quickly 
to the chest of drawers, and took out the white 
dress that Barbara had asked for when first they 
talked of the ghost. One ribbon had been miss- 
ing from its sleeve then ; now the other was gone. 
When she returned to the window, the ribbon 
was in Jekyll’s hand; and the maid, watching her 
mistress’s face, saw misgiving in the eyes, saw the 
lips form “ Phyllis.” 

“At such a distance — absurd ! ” you say, being 
only a man ; but the women know better. At 
church, last Sunday, I marked two girls, evidently 
familiar friends, who were separated by a broad 
aisle and a row of pews. One of them spoke to 
the other, contriving a coherent question with a 
pretty trick of lips and eyes ; and the mute 
response came back, prompt, particular and con- 
clusive. 

“ Phyllis ! ” — Had the thought of the maid flown 
straight to the mistress? As for Jekyll, he rose 


i 62 


AFTER His HIND. 


yawning and stretching himself, with artful lan- 
guor, thrust the ribbon into his pocket, took up 
the garden hat, and led the way by the foot-path 
toward the lodge. 

Abershaw was there with the packages. He 
had just now brought them from the inn, and was 
about to take them to the house. 

“ Handle this box carefully,'’ said Jekyll; “it is 
a barometer.” 

“And give both your hands and all your mind 
to this one,” said Barbara ; “ it is a wedding-dress 
for Phyllis.” 

The barometer slipped from Kit’s hands, but he 
caught it on his knee. Jekyll, staring at Barbara, 
did not perceive the man’s clumsiness; and Bar- 
bara observed that he did not observe it. The 
man, staring at the box, said, “ That’s a lie ! ” 

Barbara laughed. 

“What’s that?” cried Jekyll, turning on him 
fiercely. 

“ I said ’twere a lie, sir,” said Kit. “ Them as 
told you. so, mistress — my humble service to you 
always — be just liars.” 

“ How do you know?” said Jekyll. 

“ Why should 7 ^ 72 ^ care ? ” said Barbara. “ There ! 
what folly ! Of course I was jesting.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


A GROUP. — “YOU AND I.” 

O N the morrow, Jekyll, who had breakfasted 
with the Squire, joined Barbara in her morn- 
ing walk, and they took the field-path to Brignal. 
They found Winifred engaged with two of the 
cottage children, a boy and a girl, who had come 
for their customary dole of broth and curds, and 
whom Mutzie had beguiled to romp with her. 
For this particular delegation, from her exacting 
constituency of small clients. Lady Goodluck had 
resources of entertainment, narrative and lyrical, 
from which they never failed to extract fresh 
charms to console and sweeten their shock-headed 
and bare-footed dispensation. A metrical and 
highly concentrated version of the “ Babes in the 
Wood ” was their favorite form of rapture ; for 
this they would promise largely — superfluous ablu- 
tions, for example, painful abstinence from bird- 
nesting, fatiguing continuance in prayer — until to 
the business and bosom of their benevolent friend 
the conviction struck home that those foliated 
orphans had not died in vain ; and so she would 
gratefully set the heart-rending machinery going: — 


164 


AFTER HIS KIND, 


My dear, do you know, 

How a long time ago 
Two poor little children. 

Whose names I don’t know, 

Were stolen away 
On a fine summer’s day. 

And left in a wood, — 

So I’ve heard people say. 

And when it was night. 

So sad was their plight, 

The sun it went down. 

And the moon gave no light. 

They sobbed and they sighed. 

And they bitterly cried ; 

And the poor little things 
They lay down and died ! 

And when they were dead. 

The robins so red 

Brought strawberry leaves. 

And over them spread ; — 

But that was all a mistake,” Jekyll interrupted, 
suddenly appearing from behind the screen of 
vines; “those stupid birds made a lot of trouble, 
with their leaves and fuss. The fact is, you see, 
the Babes were not dead at all ; that is, not in the 
real dead-and-gone funeral way, but just a lee-tle 
dead, for the time being — you know. Jack.” 

Jack nodded briskly, and beamed with intelli- 
gence. He had enjoyed the luxury of woe which 
the authorized version afforded, but here was the 


A GROUP.— YOU AND ir 165 

charm of novelty, and the possibility of startling 
views supported by high authority. But the girl 
shrank from the glare of critical demonstration, 
and took refuge in Lady Goodluck’s arms as from 
false doctrine, heresy and schism. 

“You see,” continued Devil Dick, “there 
chanced to be a gentleman passing through the 
wood just about that time — a handsome gentle- 
man, like me.” 

The children made no sign. 

“ A noble, virtuous gentleman, like me.” 

Jack and Kitty only stared ; they could not see 
what all this had to do with their babes and robins. 

“A rich, kind gentleman, like me,” said Jekyll, 
producing some pennies. 

The audience was stirred with small motions of 
excitement. Kitty put her finger in her mouth, 
and Jack giggled. 

“ And this handsome, noble gentleman found 
those babes asleep under the leaves ; and he 
shoo’d the birds away, and spanked the babes for 
soiling their high-priced clothes ; and he picked the 
leaves and straws out of their hair, and gave them 
sixpence — two sixpences, like these — and told 
them to run along home to their nice rich rela- 
tions, and have broiled robins for supper ; and they 
did. Now take your blood-money and run, you 
mercenary darlings ! ” 

“ Dick dear,” said Winifred, “ do you find that 
those children understand you ? ” 


i66 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


“ Perfectly, your ladyship ; my system is infalli- 
ble.” 

Oh ! you have a system ? ” 

“Always. Object-teaching in this instance : 
from sixpence to draw an inference. Next time 
I meet those disheveled young sycophants, they 
will grapple with my legs, and beg me to tell 
them about the handsome gentleman and the 
broiled robins. Here comes Barbara, with Gray- 
hurst. We met the American in the lane, and I 
supposed it was the correct thing to appear sur- 
prised, delighted, and the rest of it ; but that 
guileless simpleton frustrated my amiable deceit 
by remarking that Brignal lane is his favorite stroll, 
and that he finds its peculiar charm more and 
more impressive as he approaches the house. 
Quite ingenuous, I thought ; but Barbara clapped 
her hands and laughed, and said nothing : all in 
that inscrutably idiotic way which is supposed to 
be big with meaning.” 

“ And the meaning was big enough to speak 
for itself. Good morning, Barbara ! good morn, 
ing, Mr. Grayhurst. Dick tells me you have been 
praising my pretty lane.” 

“ Is that unusual ? I can imagine ao more 
inspiring ramble in all England than Brignal lane 
from the highway to the house.” 

“ Delightful !” said Winifred. “That compli- 
ment shall be your passport ; and you shall have 
the right of way, when inspirations are in season.” 


A GROUP.— YOU AND i:’ 


167 


“ And thou hast all seasons for thine own,” said 
Barbara. “ More favored than our poor Caryl ; the 
inspirations he gathers here are usually hard and 
sour ; but then he prefers the view toward the 
highway.” 

“ I accept your metaphor,” said Winifred ; 
‘‘ for if inspirations were green plums, and 
the Vicar gathered and. devoured them as he 
approached the house, his temper when he arrives 
might be less trying — a mere matter of pepper 
drops and ginger-tea.” 

“ Happy adjustment of terms!” said Barbara, 
laughing. “And you must have prescribed for him 
pungently at his last visit.” 

“ So ! he has been telling you ; but then he 
brought his grievance from the Manse, and had 
kept it over night. Some one had been roy- 
stering under his windows at midnight : war- 
whooping, I think he said ; and rough-riding 
through Yawdley High-street afterward, to the 
scandal of all well-regulated parishioners.” 

“ What nonsense ! ” said Barbara. “ The man 
had nightmare.” 

“ Did he say ‘ some one ? ’ ” inquired Jekyll. 

“ I claim the war-whoops,” said Grayhurst. 

“ Did he say ‘ some one?’ ” repeated Jekyll. 

“ ‘ Let the galled jade wince ! ’ ” said Winifred, 
evading the question. “Here’s a fine uproar truly. 
Why not move upon the Manse in a body, and 
challenge the Vicar? ” 


i68 


AFTER HIS KIND, 


Name ! name ! ” cried the American. 

“ Grayhurst, then,” said Winifred demurely. 

Barbara was startled ; but Jekyll caught the 
fun. 

“ Alas ! ” said Grayhurst, “ my war-whoop be- 
trayed me — my own, my native whoop. When 
we fondly imagine we may pass for a sort of home- 
spun English, we are everywhere detected by our 
peculiar cry.” 

“ But seriously, Winifred,” said Jekyll, when 
was this shocking business ? ” 

“On Thursday night.” 

The two men exchanged glances, and then 
joined in a hearty laugh. 

“ On that night,” said Jekyll, “ my disreputable 
den at Wynhold was the scene of a wild orgie. This 
howling Comanche and I held high revel at the 
Croft ; we had grilled bones and pipes and flowing 
bowls ; and we surpassed each other in blood- 
curdling legends and profane minstrelsy, and 
games of unimaginable iniquity ; and when old 
Nanny Cole came trembling to bring us our can- 
dles, the air of the room burned blue. It was 
while we were sunk in the sleep of stupefaction 
that some mercurial sprite was trying to amuse 
the gentle parish priest.” 

“ Possibly some tipsy lad from Ausibel,” said 
Grayhurst, “ pursuing fun on a private system of 
his own, suggested by the finer flights of the 
Texan cow-boy.” 


A GROUP.— ''YOU AND ir 169 

“ Reduce that to a cow in a garden, and a fine 
flight of clerical fancy,” suggested Jekyll. 

“And then resolve the fine flight into an indi- 
gestion,” said Barbara ; “ and all that remains of 
the rough-riding roysterer and his war-whoops is 
a curried fowl with cucumbers at bed-time, and a 
vicar’s nightmare.” 

“ Dick dear,” said Winifred, speaking low, apart 
from the others, “ Mr. Grayhurst’s conjecture is 
evidently honest guess-work ; but you and Barbara 
are overdoing your raillery. The man did charge 
through the toll-gate, and did startle the High- 
street at midnight. Who was it ? ” 

“ Surely, Winifred, you do not suspect me still.” 

“ I have never suspected you. I know it was 
not you. But who was it ? ” 

“ Not I, nor Grayhurst, nor any man we know. 
Some senseless frolic, my lady.” 

They were interrupted by Barbara, who had 
gone in pursuit of a great emperor-butterfly, that 
hung above a rose, and grandly fanned the 
flower with its emblazoned wings. 

“Oh! what a beauty!” she cried. “Come, 
Dick, and catch him for me — quick, quick ! ” 

Grayhurst had already answered her call ; and 
Jekyll, who was noted for a certain dexterity in 
taking these tender creatures, drew his handker- 
chief from his pocket, and ran to join the chase ; 
as he did so, something fell from his hand, and 
Winifred picked it up — a bow of white ribbon ! 


170 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


“ Mr. Grayhurst,” she cried, “ those people are 
breaking a Brignal law. Protect my chartered 
libertine ! ” 

Then she retired for some minutes into the 
house ; when she re-appeared, the captured butter- 
fly was impaled upon a card, and the three cul- 
prits, grouped in the porch, were exploring its 
curious splendors. Winifred joined them, and 
leaning on Jekyll’s shoulder, followed his inter- 
esting demonstration. 

That ended, Barbara invited her companion to 
continue their walk to Yawdley ; and Jekyll, with 
that thoughtful kindness it was his whim to hide, 
said — 

“ Produce the plunder, my lady. There’s sure 
to be a bundle or a basket or a bottle or a box, or 
something else beginning with a b, for some pam- 
pered impostor of yours. Ah ! bundle this time,” 
as Winifred, laughing, brought a parcel from the 
hall — “ for Mrs. Dale, the ingenious bed-ridden. 
Small gowns no doubt, and hose and pinafores for 
that precocious little hussy who does sums in 
arithmetic lying on her back in the road, and 
counting horse-shoes in the air. Tm coming, Bar- 
bara ! of course you will wait for the bottle, Gray- 
hurst ; the favored disciple always gets the bot- 
tle.” 

As they passed the wicket and took the path 
through the Hurst, the American, lingering with 
Winifred in the garden, watched them thought- 


A GROUP.— YOU AND /.” 171 

fully ; and Lady Goodluck, waiting silently, fol- 
lowed his thoughts. 

“Miss Blythe,’' he said presently, “you com- 
manded me to be Jekyll’s friend." 

“ Commanded ? Oh, no ! I dearly wished it 
might be so." 

“Ah, well! that is but a choice of terms that 
signify the same thing. The office is one I would 
have chosen, but you chose me for the office, and 
so made it a distinction ; because, whether you 
intended so much or not, you admitted me to that 
extent to your confidence. You grant that?” 

“ Why not ? My purpose was a serious one, and 
my choice deliberate. If you find in that assur- 
ance anything to flatter you, it is you who are 
flattering me without knowing it. So, welcome 
to my confidence ! " 

“ Well then, to begin — what is Miss Lynn ? " 

“You put your question oddly; or did you 
mean to say who ? " 

“Not I; we all know that the young lady is 
Squire Shustoke’s niece ; but what is she, to Jekyll 
or to you ? " 

“ Would it not be more to the purpose to ask, 
what is she to Mr. Caryl Thorpe ? " 

“ On the contrary, that question is, I imagine, to 
so little purpose that a very dull person may 
answer without assistance — that Miss Lynn is of a 
certain value to Mr. Thorpe at market rates, and 
that Mr. Thorpe is less than nothing to Miss Lynn 


172 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


in the light of sentiment. But Miss Lynn, being 
quite free, I am told, to choose where she will, is 
going to marry a man whom she detests. That is 
one of the elements that render the case interest- 
ing; but there are others: in much that the lady 
says and does, in more that she does not say or do, 
one may find food for thought. I am curious to 
account for Miss Lynn, on genealogical princi- 
ples.” 

“You do not dislike Barbara, Mr. Grayhurst?” 

“Indeed no! She attracts me strangely. At 
times I find myself regarding her with actual 
sympathy and solicitude, such as I cannot explain 
to myself. If she should detect it, she would 
probably resent it as an impertinence.” 

“ I think,” said Winifred, “you have the pene- 
tration that goes with a sensitive temperament ; 
mere sophisticated observation might have misled 
you. The sympathy you feel is for the other Bar- 
bara.” 

“ A riddle?” 

“Yes. It is a riddle we are discussing. Bar- 
bara is duplex ; there are two of her : one, the con- 
ventional, even common-place, English girl whom 
I have known — as we imagine we know our famil- 
iars— from our childhood ; always modest, always 
ingenuous, often wilful, often winsome, with the 
stock virtues and the stock foibles that go to the 
making of that sort of ‘ nice girl ’ whom everybody 
knows.” 


A GKOUP.^“YOU AND I. 


173 


“ And the other? ” 

“ The antithesis in each particular of our Bar- 
bara: erratic, where she was conventional; daring, 
where she was diffident ; flighty, where she was 
demure ; guarded, where she was simple and frank ; 
deliberate and politic, where she was capricious and 
wilful ; restless and impatient in a life of perfect 
peace ; petulant without provocation, and excited 
by invisible and unimaginable disturbances.” 

“And when did this changeling appear on the 
scene ? ” 

“ It is about a twelve-month since I began to 
observe in Barbara these freaks of mood and 
impulse, as if she were tormented by the imp of 
the perverse.” 

“ An English girl that hath a devil ! ” murmured 
Grayhurst, again recalling Jekyll’s description, the 
day they rode together in Flecknoe Park and 
talked of the Vicar. 

Winifred caught the words, but let them go, 
unchallenged. 

“ But her moods were not demonstrative — there 
was never a scene ; and although they did not 
quite escape the dear Squire’s anxious eyes, he 
only called them symptoms, and consulted me ; 
and I pronounced it a mild case of love, compli- 
cated with temper : a diagnosis which he accepted 
as conclusive, because it amused him. Then Jie 
prescribed the Vicar.” 

“And how did the patient take the dose?” 


174 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


Like a lamb ! and grew worse from that time.” 

Miss Blythe, I think I discover in this case 
interesting indications of congenital taint. Let 
us call the parents, as the lawyers say.” 

“ Ah, now you are mounted,” said Winifred, 
“ with a pillion on your hobby for me ! Well, the 
mother first. She was Mildred Shustoke, the 
Squire’s sister as you know, some seven years 
younger than he. I have told you that Barbara 
resembles the portrait of Cicely at Overstoke. 
She inherits the likeness from her mother, who is 
said to have reproduced in a remarkable degree 
the physical and mental characteristics of the 
Snow Bride — her pale pensive beauty, her gentle, 
tranquil ways, her softness and her shrinking. 
There were times, when Barbara was yet in the 
school-room, when her mother moved and spoke 
in her. Then the Squire, regarding her thought- 
fully and fondly, would whisper ‘ Mildred ! ’ 

‘'When Mildred was entering her nineteenth 
year her health was delicate, and she fell into mor- 
bid, melancholy ways. The inevitable ‘ change ’ 
was prescribed, of course, and she was sent to her 
mother’s people, the Aldridges of Great Barr. It 
was in the hunting season, and there was a gather- 
ing at the Hall of gay and good-looking earth-cum- 
berers and time-killers. Among them was Car- 
rick Lynn, of the Lynns and Carricks of Stafford ; 
a man whom women preferred, because he had the 
art to recommend them to themselves, and to set 


A GROUP.— YOU AND /.” 


175 


himself up in their imaginations, assigning to each 
her own particular Carrick. Not ‘a ladies’ man,’ 
as we understand that term, for he was accom- 
plished and intrepid in all manly sports. How 
often have I heard him described in the peculiar jar- 
gon of his class ! But the men were shy of him ; 
there had been some very crooked lines, they said, 
in his career ; he knew the cards too well, ‘ for a 
gentleman ; ’ drank too cautiously, ‘ for a gentle- 
man.’ I once heard Squire Randal say that there 
were even certain bitter women who pronounced 
Carrick Lynn too handsome, for a gentleman ; too 
agreeable, for a gentleman — especially after he 
had married Mildred Shustoke. 

“ He took his bride to the continent ; and 
excepting two brief visits to Overstoke, when it 
was observed that the lady was either mute and 
sorrowful or restless and excited — passing 
capriciously, almost hysterically, from the one 
mood to the other — they lived abroad always. 
He wrote with enthusiasm of the noble draught- 
horses of Normandy ; he had bought an interest 
in a great breeding-farm near Rouen, and was 
‘giving all his time and thoughts to this fascina- 
ting pursuit ; ’ and she wrote of indifferent mat- 
ters, in a measured tone that betrayed dictation, 
and with trouble between the lines. 

“ Barbara was born at Dieppe. When she was 
five years old, her mother died. Mildred’s last 
letter to her brother, written in French by her 


176 


AFTER HIS KIND, 


nurse, one of the good angels of the Bon Secours, 
commended the child to his love and protection, 
and contained not one word of allusion to her 
husband. Below her name, most painfully 
formed by the dying hand, the sister had written, 
Qui a le coeur bris^. Through some error in the 
French superscription that letter was many weeks 
in reaching Overstoke. The Squire, repairing to 
the scene in haste, found Mildred’s grave at 
Rouen; but her husband had disappeared with the 
child, leaving no trace. When he thought to 
find some friend of Lynn’s, he was gravely 
referred to a notorious croupier. 

“ Two years later, a kind-hearted English 
couple brought Barbara, then in her eighth year, 
to Bolingstone, where the Squire found her. She- 
had been consigned to their charge at Dieppe, 
by her father — ^ such a handsome, pleasant 
gentleman ! ’ — to whom they had been recom- 
mended for this service by a commissionnaire. 
The child brought a letter, which she would 
suffer no one to touch until she had placed it in 
her uncle’s hand. It was from Lynn, to the 
Squire — brief and to the point : 

“ ‘ This is Mildred’s child. Love her, for your 
sister’s sake ; and teach her to forget her father. 
She is an orphan now. — Carrick Lynn.’ 

“ It was afterward ascertained that, on taking 
leave of his child, he had burned his papers and 
shot himself : a broken and desperate gambler ! 


A GROUP.—'' YOU AND I. 


177 


“No one thought of teaching Barbara to forget 
her father ; but she taught herself to put his 
memory out of her life. I never dare to imagine 
in what a school the child must have been trained 
in the two years, between two tragedies, that she 
passed with him — motherless. I never dare to 
imagine all the infamous precocities she must 
have tried to forget since that time.” 

“ It is as I suspected,” said Grayhurst, “ and 
your double Barbara is explained. Here, at 
Overstoke, her memory and imagination have 
walked in peaceful places, seeking rest ; but the 
spirits of Mildred Shustoke and Garrick Lynn 
have crept, by turns, into their old abode, 
and found it swept and garnished. As one 
departs, the other enters ; and you have shown 
me that the last state of that girl has been worse 
than the first. Verily, it behooves us to look to 
the manner of our living, seeing that we never 
wholly die to those we beget. In that light, the 
case of Miss Lynn has its accusing aspect ; in any 
light a most pathetic claim, and our hearts can 
not escape from it. What can we do for her? ” 

“ Watch her, guard her — you and 1.” 

“ You and I ! — You and I ! ” 

How the man’s voice was changed ! — low now 
and eager. Winifred, blushing, turned away, and 
crossed the garden path to pluck a flower; the 
American, standing there, only followed her with 
his eyes. 


178 


AFTER ms KIND. 


“ Mr. Grayhurst, find the Vicar’s night-rider ; 
and when you are sure of him, tell no one but 


me. 


Meanwhile, Jekyll and Barbara had made the 
rounds of the village, and returning by the 
avenue, approached the house : they were speak- 
ing of the churchyard. 

“It is not there,” said Jekyll; “I searched in 
every spot — in the road, at the lych-gate, in all 
the paths and among the tombs. If it was lost 
then — and you are not sure — some of the cottage 
people have found it.” 

As he spoke, he drew a ribbon from his pocket 
and she quickly concealed it in her dress, as he 
took his leave, departing toward the lodge. 

Regaining her room, Barbara closed the door 
and threw the ribbon on a couch. 

As she did so, she uttered a low cry of aston- 
ishment and consternation : — 

Both ribbons were there ! 


CHAPTER XV. 


LOST AT SEA. — DOLLY ON GUARD. 

I T was the Squire’s “ Maryland hour,” as he was 
wont to term those receptive sittings of an 
afternoon, when ensconced in his great chair, a 
revelation of pure comfort, he fondly dallied with 
his pipe, and let the American run on, in that soft 
smooth flow of the talk he loved to hear. Of 
Richard Shustoke of Wyiihold, bustling on the 
banks of the Severn, and preparing to erect an 
American lineage on a foundation of wheat and 
tobacco, crude iron and water-power ; of his mar- 
riage with Johanna Carden, whose name stands 
for distinctions of civic credit and renown ; of their 
place in the courtly companies of Annapolis ; of 
the later home of the widow in the seclusion of 
Garrison Forest, with her three sons, Richard, and 
James Carden, and Charles ; and of that son of 
Charles (to the Squire more interesting than all the 
rest), the wild lad who was lost in the Favorite 
— Devil Dick. 

“ Surely lost ? ” the Squire questioned. , 

“That is the story, sir. No tidings ever came 
of him ; his mother mourned him, and a stone in 


i8o AFTER HIS KIND. 

the private cemetery of the Shustokes, at Garrison 
Forest, records the manner of his death : ‘ Lost 
at Sea’, ” 

“ Who placed the stone there? ” 

“ His mother.” 

“ And she mourned him long? ” 

“To the day of her death, although she survived 
him four years.” 

“ And yet, Mr. Grayhurst, you have seen 
Richard Shustoke’s tomb in Overstoke church- 
yard ; and I may almost say that he walks and 
talks with you, in the person. of his own grandson. 
But that does not surprise you ?” 

“ How could it? The very name. Devil Dick, 
met and seemed to welcome me, before I first 
alighted from the coach at the inn. Then Miss 
Blythe—” 

“ The lad’s good angel ! ” said the Squire. 

“ Thinking to enlist a loyal friend for Jekyll, 
told me the story of his grandfather, from the 
time of his appearance at Ausibel, and his mys- 
terious adoption by Squire Marmaduke. Since 
then your own significant inquiries from time to 
time, joined to the Maryland story, have com- 
pleted the clew ; for I knew you had inherited the 
secret of the stranger’s identity, and I have waited 
for the time when Devil Dick himself might com- 
mend me to your confidence.” 

“ And that time has come,” said the Squire. 
“ The secret, kept by my grandfather, my father 


LOST A T SEA —DOLL V ON GUARD. i8i 

and myself, may justly fall to you, by right of 
those whom you represent. 

“ The Favorite ran into a hurricane off the coast 
of France; her foremast was carried away, and 
she sprang a leak, that gained upon the pumps 
from the start. The ship was . doomed, and 
there was no hope but in the two life-boats. One 
of those was torn from the davits and stove, and 
the full crew was more than the other could carry. 
Three men must be left to take their chances in 
the sea ; and some spars and casks were lashed, to 
make a raft for them. Then lots were drawn on 
equal terms for all hands ; and the risks of the raft 
fell to the second mate, the carpenter, and a sickly 
boy who had never been at sea before. Devil 
Dick put the boy into the boat, and would have 
taken his place on the raft ; but the captain, who 
was Shustoke’s kinsman, dragged him to the 
launch. Then Devil Dick sprang into the sea, 
and with the help of the mate and carpenter made 
good his footing on the raft. 

“ Before her crew had pulled a hundred strokes 
the boat was swamped, and every man was lost ; 
but the buoyant raft swam on. Provisioned with 
a bag of dried beef and biscuit and a cask of water, 
and flying a signal of distress they had contrived 
to rig, those three clung to their desperate craft 
and drifted like sea-weed. On the third day, the 
mate became delirious, and laughing horribly, 
threw himself into the sea. One day more, and 


i 82 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


the carpenter, exhausted and dazed, rolled off the 
side, like a man who turns in his sleep. Then Devil 
Dick ate freely of the beef, took a full draft of 
water, lashed himself as securely as he could, and 
waited. 

“ He died there, he said, and came to life again 
on board an Italian bark bound for Genoa. He 
must have been insensible when they picked him 
up ; but he always maintained that Devil Dick 
Shustoke died on that raft, and that the man who 
assumed the name of the poor ship-boy he had 
tried to save, and so made his way from Genoa to 
Marseilles, from Marseilles to London, from Lon- 
don to Ausibel and Overstoke, was raised from 
the dead, into another life, another world, another 
name. 

“ In a sailor’s canvas belt he had brought on 
his body his money and all his papers : papers 
that served to install him in the confidence and 
affection of Squire Marmaduke — and money 
enough (so profuse had his doting mother been) 
to maintain him in the modest circumstances of a 
country gentleman, until my grandfather could 
persuade him to use his very liberal letter of credit 
on a banking-house in London. At last that was 
managed discreetly, through the Squire’s solicitors; 
and then the young man wrote to his mother. Of 
that letter — which was addressed by Squire Mar- 
maduke, and warily posted under cover to one of 
the Cardens of Annapolis — nothing was ever 


LOST A T SEA.— DOLL Y ON GUARD. 183 

known, save the strange promise he exacted : that 
the lost should remain forever lost to his people 
in Maryland, a foundling concealed in the remote- 
ness and obscurity of his ancestral parish. We 
know that his mother accepted the hard condition, 
and kept his secret locked in her heart; for it was 
only on those terms that she could hope to hear 
from the lad who had committed his wild life to 
the depths, and suffered the great sea-change. 
You say there is a stone to his memory at Garri- 
son Forest ; how is it inscribed ?” 

“Very simply,” said Grayhurst : “LOST AT 
Sea : Richard Shustoke : Born at Garrison 
Forest, April 4, MDCCLIX Resurgam ! ” 

^'Careful simplicity!” said the Squire.. “The 
‘ Resurgam ’ may have had a significance other 
than spiritual, looking for its fulfilment in the 
flesh. I wonder when that stone was erected — 
before or after she had heard from him ! 

“However that maybe, the lady corresponded 
with her son, under cover to Squire Marmaduke ; 
and for four years he received stated remittances 
from her, amounting to £ 1 500 a year. Then came a 
letter from her physician, addressed to Marmaduke 
Shustoke of Overstoke, advising him that Mistress 
Rebecca Shustoke of Garrison Forest had been 
called to her final rest, and had departed in sweet 
peace, leaving her solemn blessing to the house- 
hold at Overstoke, ‘ and to all who are held dear 
under that honored roof,’ 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


184 


The remittances ceased at her death ; but young 
Shustoke had lived prudently, and had left ;£‘40CX) 
with my grandfather. To this the Squire added an 
annuity of ;^500, which was farther increased at 
the birth of the grandson, our Dick, by a like pro- 
vision for the child from my father, together with 
a gift of the Croft at Wynhold. 

“When Richard Shustoke lay dying, in the 
house that is now Jekyll’s, and my father (his first 
and dearest comrade in England) watched by his 
bed, he begged Ralph to fetch from the little cabi- 
net — the same that you have seen there — a certain 
package of letters. A long while he held these, 
turning them over fondly, and murmuring tender, 
tearful words. Then he handed them to my father, 
saying ^ Burn these now, Ralph ! Let me see you 
burn them.’ 

“ Those were his mother’s letters ; and Richard 
Jekyll has never heard of her, nor of her home at 
Garrison Forest, nor of the Devil Dick who was 
lost in the Favorite 


That night, Grayhurst and Jekyll sat in the 
porch at The Chequers, and smoked in silent rumi- 
nation, overcome by the glamour of the hour and 
the scene ; for all the landscape was bathed in the 
silver flood of a full moon, and no sound broke the 
stillness, save the distant tinkle of a sheep-bell 
and the rustle of the leaves. 


LOST AT SLA.— TOLLY ON GUATT. 


1S5 


Presently Jekyll shook himself. 

“Wake up, Grayhurst ! ” he cried, “and give 
us an American song: not clod-hopper’s trash, like 
Yankee-Doodle : nor hyfalutin’, like Hail Colum- 
bia ; nor the spiteful minstrelsy of the Star- 
Spangled Banner, so painful to British sensibili- 
ties ; but a true backwoods ballad, if the squatter 
muse has ever produced so original a stave.” 

“ Here goes then,” said the American : “ a thing 
I caught from a boatman on the Sacramento 
River. He said he learned it when he was logging 
in Oregon.” 

“ What’s logging ? ” 

Making ballads with an axe.” 

“ That’s better than making sermons with ^ old 
saws,’ as Winifred says of the Vicar’s preaching. 
Well, how did it go, among the logs? No piano 
arrangement, please.” 

“ So, then : 


ffU q 


r-f— ^ — i r-i 

-hr 


d J ^ h 


b n 1 ' • 

0 # “i : J 




9 


A cab - in in the tim - ber stands, In 


c b js h 

~ ' , 0 —-1 


f-N — 1 


i ^ TV# Ts V v-n # 

#'■ -d 


t ^ J i-J J— ±:: L_ 

9 • 9 


that new counterie ; A lodge I build -ed with my hands, In 


- N ::: _ - ~ 

^ V V !V^ 




d _i 1 ^ N" 


1 / Ik. 





that new coun-ter-ie. I go to mar - ket with a gun ; I 


1 86 


AFTER HIS KIND. 




;=1ti 


rath-er fish for food than fun ; And fid - die when the 


.r 

1 

1 

u 



P J p ^ 1 1 


1 ' ^ p i T 

b 

t-- /-j ± 


day is done, In that new conn - ter - ie. 

“ A ready rope is all our law, 

In that new coun-terie ; 

No bailiff’s grip, no taxman’s maw, 
In that new coun-terie. 

We keep our money in a mine ; 

On johnny-cake our ladies dine ; 
And all the girls are superfine. 

In that new coun-terie.” 


“ And all the girls are superfine, 
In that new coun-terie ! ” 


sang Jekyll. “Grayhurst, were you ever home- 
sick for a place you never saw? ” 

Oh, yes ! After reading Melville’s Typee I 
was home-sick and heart-sick, for many a day, for 
the Marquesas Islands ; and once, off the coast of 
Patagonia, Cape Saint-John, grizzled and gaunt, 
and clamorous with penguins and gulls, bewitched 
me with a longing so uncanny that I could have 
thrown myself into the sea.” 

“ Grayhurst, let’s go home — to that new coun- 
terie. Swear that you 11 take me when you go, or 
I 11 run away and become a philo-progenitive and 
rapacious Mormon, and flaunt the motto of your 
native State, ‘ Crescite et multiplicarnini' — Good- 


LOST A T SEA.— DOLL Y ON GUARD. 187 

night !” And he ran off abruptly, singing as he 
took the road to Wynhold, 

“ On johnny-cake our ladies dine, 

And all the girls are superfine, 

In that new coun-terie." 

“That’s odd!” thought the American. “He 
has left his mare Minx in the stable ; and he is 
in no humor for my company on the road — that’s 
odd!” 

He leaned on the rail of the porch and watched 
his friend, no longer singing or loitering, but with 
free swinging stride making for the bridge. 

“ Mr. Grayhurst ! ” 

He started, and turned. Dolly stood in the 
door, and beckoned mysteriously. As he ap- 
proached she retreated toward the inner staircase, 
still inviting him to follow as she ascended, and 
so drew him into his own room. 

“ Well, Dolly,” said he, “ what is all this ? Love 
or madness ? ” 

“That’s just what I want to know, sir. Stand 
at this window, please, and look up the road. 
There’s a man, just passing the bridge, going 
toward Overstoke lodge.*” 

“ Mr. Jekyll, of course; he has just left me.” 

“ I know, sir. And you see he keeps the right 
side of the road, where the moonlight is bright- 
est, and there’s a path in the grass. On the other 
side there’s the shadow of the Hurst ; and the 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


1 88 

tall hedge beyond carries the shadow on, you see, 
sir, till you come to that break in the bush where 
the moonlight bursts through — so full and clear 
that we can almost trace the sheep-tracks from 
here. Now, Mr. Grayhurst, sir, just watch that 
stream of moonlight on the hedge side, after Mr. 
Jekyll has passed it in the road. In three min- 
utes he’ll be there.” 

Grayhurst waited ; there was humor in the sit- 
uation, and Dolly was a clever girl ; his hand 
rested on the plump shoulder, and the plump 
shoulder was alert and expectant. Dolly’s men- 
tal chronometer was true ; in three minutes Dick 
was passing the luminous space. 

“ Now, sir ! nevermind Mr. Jekyll. Watch the 
break in the hedge.” 

Grayhurst waited and watched ; the plump 
shoulder quivered and twitched ; and Doily, pant- 
ing with parted lips, was pretty in the moonlight. 

“ Dolly ! ” said Grayhurst, “ this suspense is 
maddening; one minute more, and I shall kiss 
you ! ” 

“ No such luck ! I mean, thank you, sir. — There ! 
there! Look now, Mr. Grayhurst, sir!” 

A swarthy fellow, gripping a bludgeon, emerged 
from the screen of the hedge, plunged skulking 
through the stream of light, that showed the very 
buttons at the knees of his corduroy smalls, and 
disappeared behind the shrubbery beyond. 

“ Abershaw ! What is he up to ? ” 


LOST A T SEA.— DOLL Y ON GUARD. 189 

“ Ah ! that’s what I’m just wicked to know, 
sir. And if I was a man, with a handy revolver 
in my table-drawer. I’d know before I went to 
bed.” 

‘‘Dolly, can you hold your tongue ? ” 

“ If ever! and me a bar-maid? Paid for talking 
all day about nothing, and holding my tongue 
about everything else.” 

“ Well, this affair is something else. So hold 
your tongue ; and here’s the kiss you begged for.” 

“ Oh ! oh ! Did ever? ” 

“ Now leave my candle on the table in the side 
hall ; and go to bed, like a Vestal Virgin.” 

He took his hat, and started for the stairs, but- 
toning his coat ; then turning suddenly, caught 
the girl’s hand and led her back into the room. 

“ What do you know, Dolly ? Or what do you 
imagine ? Speak quickly, and speak low.” 

“ There’s danger in that gipsy fellow, sir. 
Whether he’s mad, or whether he’s bad, there’s 
danger in him. He’s wild after Phyllis, and she’s 
afraid of him.” 

“ How do you know that ? ” 

“ She’s always swearing he’s a lamb ; besides, 
she sleeps with me sometimes.” 

“ Oh ! — Is it for herself that she fears him ? ” 

“ Not she. He’d cut a score of throats for her, 
and finish with his own.” 

“ What is it then ? ” 

“The temper of the limmer. He’s got it in 


90 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


his gipsy heart that there’s something between 
the innocent lass and, and — Mr. Jekyll, sir.” 

“What?” 

“ The crazy scorpion ! Why, the gentleman 
never so much as passes a joke with her. You 
see, sir, her hairs too red. But mark this, Mr. 
Grayhurst : when Phyllis is at the inn. Kit never 
shows himself here; but if Mr. Jekyll passes the 
evening with you, and takes the road for Wyn- 
hold late, as he did to-night, Abershaw is never 
far off. I caught him hanging about the stables 
to-night, but I did not let him catch me.” 

Grayhurst ran down stairs, but the girl over- 
took him in the porch. 

“ Mr. Grayhurst, sir! you forgot something.” 

It was a pistol. 

The highway, as it approached the avenue at 
Overstoke, made a slight deflection, bearing gently 
to the right, and then more abruptly curving to the 
left again, as it rounded the covert of shrubbery 
that screened the lodge ; so that, from the gate, 
the nearer stretch of road on the Yawdley 
side was quite concealed. Thus Grayhurst, keep- 
ing to the mossy turf, betrayed his approach 
neither to the eye nor to the ear of a man who 
crouched in the shadow of the copse — a man blind 
to all objects, save such as the depths of the 
avenue might disclose ; deaf to all sounds, save a 
whisper that might be muffled there. 

“ Thieves, Abershaw?” 


LOST A T SEA.— DOLL V ON GUARD. 1 9 1 

Grayhurst had marked how the fellow clutched 
his bludgeon with a wicked grip, and breathed 
hard between inarticulate mutterings, as, stooping 
low, he peered into the shadows. 

Now, at that sudden challenge from an ambush, 
he turned and sprang with ready weapon, alert 
and expert. The American had not advanced 
into the shadow of the copse, and the moonlight 
at his back revealed to the impetuous bailiff 
a man with a pistol. 

Grayhurst at that moment recalled Jekyll’s 
description of Kit, “ a slow fellow who is always 
on hand.” 

“ Thieves, Abershaw? ” 

The bludgeon now lay in the grass, and the 
man stood, hat in hand, as meek as his blud- 
geon. 

“ Mr. Grayhurst ! my humble service t’ ye, sir. 
'Twere a bit o’ a start like, arskin’ your pardon — 
bein’ lonesome, d’ye see, sir, and layin’ for 
tramps.” 

Tramps. Could you make them out ? ” 

“ Nowt to see, sir ; but a shufflin’ in the hedge, 
and then a whistle in the avenoo. I were in bed, 
sir, and they’ve got a smartish start o’ me.” 

“Ah well! you are not to blame for that. An 
honest, hard-working fellow like you has a right 
to sleep soundly.” 

“Ay, sir; and ’tis a gentleman like you that 
takes the rights o’t. That sound I do sleep, I 


192 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


were just muddled like; else I’d ’a’ knowed you 
quicker, Mr. Grayhurst, sir.” 

“Well, as I am out for a walk, I’ll try the 
avenue for your tramps, and the grounds as far 
as the stables. If they double on me on either 
side, you can be ready for them. Stay here, and 
watch the cross path and the mere, from the 
hedge.” 

“If I might make so bold, sir, seein’ as I know 
their tricks, bein’ born to ’em like — if your honor 

would just let me, — Mr. Grayhurst, sir! Damn 

him ! ” 

The American had left him chafing there ; and 
now advanced in the direction of the house, 
rapidly but cautiously, keeping well in the covert 
of the trees, and making no sound. At a point 
where the straight line of vista was lost, and the 
leafy alley swerved slightly to the left, he stopped, 
and retreated into the deepest shadow. 

Voices! now raised on an earnest eager word, 
now falling low and for a moment lost, as the 
breeze rises and falls ; the sound of his own name 
— Grayhurst ! — nothing more ; a movement bring- 
ing two forms into spectral view, as the moonlight, 
flashing through a lattice of leaves, flecks and 
bars the white drapery of a nymph, and lingers 
on Hyperion’s face under a squire’s riding hat ; a 
bewildering blending of arms, a lingering ecstasy 

of lips “ Hul-lo ! ” — and Grayhurst whistled 

low, and then sang loud : 


LOST A T SEA.— DOLL V ON GUARD. 


193 


“A cabin in the timber stands. 

In that new coun-terie, 

A lodge I builded with my hands. 

In that new coun-terie. 

“Vanished! What a clever girl for moonlight 
emergencies ! She is harboring in the thicket 
now — waiting for a friendly cloud, no doubt. But 
that amiable gipsy is a fool; and so is the Rev- 
erend Ethelred Thorpe. I must sing my song 
for Barbara, when she has time to hear the rest 
•of it." 


CHAPTER XVI. 


GLAMOURIE.— DRAWING THE LINE. 

S INCE the sentimental episode of the avenue 
Grayhurst had not met Barbara alone, either 
at Overstoke or in the roads ; and he looked for- 
ward to a convenient interview with her, with an 
interest to which his supposed discovery imparted 
a purely intellectual quality. Would she betray 
embarrassment ? Improbable — her self-possession 
was one of her powers. Or curiosity ? Doubtful 
— her finesse was another. Now that he knew her 
story from Winifred, he justly estimated her 
resources of reticence and stratagem, acquired in 
the infant-school of self-defense ; and yet she had 
her caprices, that might be enticed ; and her sur- 
prises, that one might set traps for. Winifred 
had explained that there were two Barbaras ; to 
pit one against the other, in cunning fence, might 
even be virtue at the present juncture. 

And here comes the lady ! galloping from 
Yawdley; and there comes the American, trotting 
from AusibeT. both taking the early morning air, 
to meet unawares at the lodge. 


GLAMOURIE.—DRA WING THE LINE. 


195 


Good-morrow to your night-cap ! cried Bar- 
bara merrily. 

Painful embarrassment ! thought Grayhurst, 
recalling his own sagacious speculations, as he 
responded — 

‘ Sweet air, blow soft ! Mount, lark, aloft ! 

To give my love good-morrow.” 

But I’m not your love.” 

“ Poet’s license. To give the Reverend Caryl 
Ethelred Thorpe’s love good-morrow : How 
would the breezes and the birds of the air take 
that?” 

The girl greeted his sally with whole-hearted 
laughter. 

“ What’s ■ the matter ? ” she asked ; as Gray- 
hurst regarded her thoughtfully. 

“ Oh ! early birds, you know. I was wonder- 
ing if you had found your worm ; I’ve got mine.” 

What is it ? ” 

The surprise and pleasure of meeting you.” 

“ Nice worm ! — same as mine. Ride to the 
house with me, and you shall have johnny-cake 
for breakfast.” 

“ What do you know about johnny-cake ? ” 

“ Everything : I can make it ; I can bake it ; 
I can sing it : 

“ On johnny-cake your ladies dine. 

And all the girls are superfine, 

In that new coun-terie.” 


196 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


“ How did you come by your science and your 
song ? 

The song from Dick — but of course he does 
not know it ; and the receipt from an old cook- 
book at Overstoke. Take of Indian meal two 
quarts ; sweet milk one pint — ” 

“ Wha-at ? ” 

“ Sweet milk one pint ; beat the yolk of four 
eggs ; — ” 

“ What for ? ” 

“To mix with the meal, of course; or with the 
milk, or something. Oh, you know ! ” 

“ Miss Lynn, this is simply wicked. That a 
work professing to impart instruction on a subject 
so serious as johnny-cake, should inculcate princi- 
ples so false and a practice so vicious, suggests 
possibilities of perversion too deplorable to con- 
template, and shocks the imagination with the 
spectacle of the simple British mind misled, 
betrayed, without faith, without hope.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry ! Is it the milk ? ” 

“ What is milk to us, when all is error and con- 
fusion ? In the first place, the milk should not be 
sweet ; and then there should be no milk at all. 
Likewise as to the eggs : use no eggs, and never 
beat them — never ! ” 

“ Dear sir, how shall I thank you ? You have 
saved my domestic reputation, besides a quantity 
of milk and eggs. Now I have only to set my 
cake in the oven, and ” 


GLAMOURIE.—DRA WING THE LINE. 


97 


“Stop! what madnes3 is this? Is it johnny- 
cake, or Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, that 
we are discussing ? ” 

“ Is it to be eaten raw ? ” 

“ Toasted, dear lady, always toasted. First 
the crude material, thick and slab, is to be 
laid upon some flat surface (the back of your 
looking-glass will do, or an ancestral breastplate 
of the Roundhead period — there’s a handy one 
in the gallery), and tenderly patted with judicious 
fingers, until it assumes the required degree of 
stratification.” 

“ I see ; ‘ Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man ’! ” 

“ Quite so ; it was the johnny-cake that inspired 
that time-honored poem.” 

“ Pat it, and pat it, and mark it with G ; and 
put it in the oven — ” 

“ Excuse me : lean it against a smoothing-iron 
or a brick, in front of a roaring fire — ” 

“ And mark it with J. G. and W. B. ? ” 

“No ! Toss it to the pigs — who, if they were 
pigs of Maryland breed, would scorn it ; for they 
would know that no slender English maiden, free- 
born and fair, could ever produce that subtle- 
savory thing we term a johnny-cake. It isthe fit- 
test survival of a sensuousness essentially Ethio- 
pian, and was evolved from the inner consciousness 
of a true child of Ham — some hereditary bonds- ^ 
man. To make a faultless johnny-cake. Miss Lynn, 
you must be black, you must be fat, you must be 


93 


AFTEJR HIS KIND. 


a pampered slave and a doting despot ; and even 
so, your secret shall be buried with you ; you can 
never teach the world how to make a johnny- 
cake, because you never learned ; you were born 
so — What’s the matter ? ” 

Barbara’s horse had shied with a bound, and 
for the moment she was busy, head and hands, 
with the startled creature. 

“ Soh, there ! Pansy. ’ Tis only Abershaw.” 

‘‘ Abershaw I I do not see him.” 

Nor I,” said Barbara. “Nevertheless, he is here. 
Look in the thicket.” 

Grayhurst rode back a few rods, to the spot 
where Pansy had shied ; and in the bush, outside 
the line of trees, he discovered the bailiff. In a 
nook quite bare of herbage, and so shaded at all 
times that the earth was still wet and soft from a 
passing shower that had left no mark in the open 
ground, the man was searching in the plastic soil ; 
and so intently engaged was he, that even for the 
tramp of the horses and the talk of the riders he 
seemed not to have paused in his task. Gray- 
hurst by a gesture signalled to the lady to be still, 
and watched the fellow, as stooping low, his left 
hand on his knee, he slowly turned from side to 
side, and with expressive fingers traced — foot- 
prints ! 

For some minutes the American sat motionless 
in his saddle, marking the movements of the man, 
and striving to interpret the parable and the signs ; 


GLAMOURIE— DRAWING THE LINE 199 

for it was at this spot that he had heard the voices 
and discovered Jekyll, on the night of his encoun- 
ter with Abershaw at the lodge ; and here now 
was Barbara, imperturbable as the Sphinx. 

Then quietly he rejoined his companion, and 
they rode forward, slowly and in silence. 

'‘You are a model horsewoman. Miss Lynn. 
Why are you so seldom in the saddle?” 

“ I have no ‘ proper ’ escort, except the ordinary 
parish priest.” 

“ Hail, Columbia, happy land ! where every 
thing is proper that is not common. But are you 
not unduly fastidious and exacting ? The average 
American equestrienne would esteem herself happy 
in the attendance of a tame Anglican vicar.” 

“And with rapture would I exchange with her, 
for the fine distraction of a Texan Ranger.” 

“ Or the tempestuous wantonness of a Califor- 
nian mule-driver? Bnt why cross the seas for 
your disheveled ideal, when you have a Devil 
Dick at your elbow? By the by, those two — I 
mean Dick and the Vicar — appear to regard each 
other with a certain reserve, I fancy ; a diploma- 
tist might say that their ‘relations’ were ‘ strained ’ 
— might he not? ” 

‘‘ Possibly ; unless your diplomatist should 
chance to be that phenomenon in his craft, a plain 
man talking plain English ; in which case he would 
say that Thorpe hated Jekyll, and Jekyll despised 
Thorpe.” 


20C 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


“You put the case strongly.” 

“ Not more so than Caryl himself would put it ; 
he is not stupid ; he does not deceive himself. 
You avoid him ; Winifred pities him ; the Squire 
tolerates him ; I do most heartily detest him ; ” — 

“ Miss Lynn ! ” 

“ Jekyll despises him ; and — 

“You will marry him?” 

The girl turned upon Grayhurst with flashing 
eyes ; her lips were parted as if for some impetu- 
ous utterance, but only a broken incoherent ejacu- 
lation escaped her. Then she stung her mare 
smartly with the whip, and as the pretty creature 
sprang snorting, Barbara curbed her so fiercely 
that she reared upright, and pawed the air. 

In a moment the American was ready, with arm 
extended, to snatch the reckless rider from the 
saddle before the mare should fall backward. 

“ Soh, Pansy ! Poor Pansy ! ” and the girl patted 
the trembling neck, and cooed in soothing 
sounds. 

“ Is she not a beauty, Mr. Grayhurst ? ” 

He did not reply, and his look was stern. 

“You are displeased; you are angry,” she said, 
touching his arm timidly, and with contrition in 
her eyes. 

“ Miss Lynn, if I am ever to have the pleasure 
of riding with you again, I trust you will address 
your energetic expressions of emotion to me ; the 
other animal does not understand them, you see,” 


GLAMOURIE.— DRAWING THE LINE. 


201 


She hung her head in silence, and Grayhurst, 
regarding her askance, saw her transformed, sub- 
dued and gentle; with a touching impulse she 
turned, and with tearful eyes offered him her 
hand. 

“ I thank you,” she said, for reproving me; no 
one else is so friendly, no one else is so true : except 
our Winifred ; and it is hard for her, for she knows 
that a woman’s rebuke to a woman is as a drawn 
sword.” 

He had detained her hand kindly ; now, in releas- 
ing it, he said, 

“You are happy in the love of Miss Blythe, 
Barbara.” 

“ Barbara ! ” 

“ Pardon me. Miss Lynn ; your friendliness 
beguiled me, and I forgot myself.” 

“Then always forget yourself, I beg; and 
remember, rather, that whatever of good you may 
find in me is Barbara, and the rest is Miss Lynn. 
I am indeed happy in the love of Winifred, and I 
would rejoice to share that happiness with you — 
although it is all I have.” 

“ Or desire ? for if I am to understand that Miss 
Lynn is to marry a man whom she does most 
heartily detest, I should like to know what is to 
become of Barbara. ” 

“ Oh, we must kill her off, in a nice, heart-rend- 
ing chapter.” 

“ But as Barbara is the more interesting and 


202 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


loveable of the two, suppose we save her by frus- 
trating the fatal nuptials. The other characters — 
Miss Blythe, Jekyll, and Grayhurst — may conspire 
to accomplish that end without seriously impairing 
the plot ; and Devil Dick may be the disheveled 
angel who thwarts the schemes of the reverend 
villain.” 

The girl laughed, “ And Devil Dick,” she said, 
“ would fill the part with ingenious malice. The 
congenial sport would inspire him, without the 
incentive of nobler motives. Did Winifred ever 
tell you the Ezekiel story? ” 

“Never. Who is Ezekiel?” 

“ He’s dead. He was a prophet, with radical 
views on the subject of shepherds who ‘ feed them- 
selves.’ Oh ! Jekyll quite approves of Ezekiel.” 

“ I should not have supposed him familiar with 
the voice of the prophets, nor concerned for the 
radical views of the son of Buzi.” 

“ It was all owing to Winifred. Ah ! wait till 
she takes you captive, and leads you by the 
rivers of Babylon. About Ezekiel? Well, it 
seems that Winifred had been having serious talk 
with Jekyll one day, having found him somewhat 
muddled in his Catechism, and incoherent in his 
Creed ; and she was led, by the contemplation of 
his spiritual imbecility, to speak of the stricter 
functions of the clergy, and the responsibility of 
teachers in the Church. She portrayed for him a 
preacher, such as Paul, ‘ who hath the Bible at his 


GLAMOURIE.—DRAWING THE LINE. 203 

fingers’ ends ; ’ and having won him to the cause 
of the faithful shepherd, suddenly plunged him 
into the thirty-fourth of Ezekiel, and baptized 
him in a noble indignation against the rapacious 
shepherds who ‘ feed themselves.’ 

“Jekyll was delighted with the Prophet, whom 
he seemed to regard as a sort of sublimated Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury ; and he urged me earnestly 
to ‘ try Thorpe with the thirty-fourth of Eze- 
kiel.’ 

“You know it is an Overstoke custom, derived 
from Squire Marmaduke’s time, to call the house- 
hold together in the morning-room on Sunday 
nights, to hear the Bible read. The chapter is 
selected by the Squire, but not always read by him ; 
sometimes he assigns that duty to me, sometimes 
to Jekyll, if he has passed the evening with us; 
invariably to the Vicar, when he is present. 

“One Sunday, we had them both to tea; and 
they lingered until the stable clock struck ten. 

“ That was the signal for the servants, who 
came to their appointed places, led by Mrs. Pen- 
nyweight and Keyes. When all were seated, and 
the solemnity was such as only the presence of 
the British butler can impart, I brought the small 
Bible to the Squire, and took a seat beside him, 
while Jekyll sat between me and the Vicar. When 
the Squire had selected his chapter, he handed me 
the open book, and Jekyll received it from me on 
its way to the Vicar. But Jekyll was awkward ; 


204 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


the book closed in his hands, and he lost the 
place. 

‘‘ The Squire, who gives all his mind devoutly 
to these occasions, had already settled himself in 
his chair, and closed his eyes. 

“‘Beg pardon, Thorpe!' said Dick. ‘Very 
stupid of me ; but I have the place. Ezekiel, I 
think, sir’ (to the Squire). 

“ ‘ Eh ? what ? Dear me ! I quite forget. Eze- 
kiel, was it, or Isaiah ? Ezekiel, you say. Why 
not ? Ezekiel is good.’ 

“ ‘Ezekiel, thirty-fourth,’ said Dick, as he passed 
the book to the Vicar. 

“ Caryl is an accomplished reader : correct, grace- 
ful, impressive. Dick, who had long wished to 
hear him read the thirty-fourth of Ezekiel, now 
assumed an attitude of eager interest and admira- 
tion. 

“ Caryl, who had not stoned the prophets for 
some time, and so did not recognize this one, started 
. with brave confidence. I know by heart that 
sublime indictment and imprecation, Mr. Gray- 
hurst ; and it is strange that no thought of the 
humor of the situation, then, intrudes upon my 
remembrance of the words, to belittle or profane 
their awful import. Even the malicious device 
of Jekyll seems to derive a certain dignity of 
motive and meaning from the scorn and fury of 
their divine compassion : 

“ ‘ Woe to the shepherds of Israel that do feed 


GLAMOURIE.— DRAWING THE LINE. 205 

themselves ! Should not the shepherds feed the 
flocks? 

“ ‘ Ye eat the fat, and ye clothe you with the 
wool ; ye kill them that are fed — but ye feed not 
the flock. 

“‘The diseased have ye not strengthened, 
neither have ye healed that which was sick, 
neither have ye bound up that which was broken, 
neither have ye brought again that which was 
driven away, neither have ye sought that which 
was lost ; but with force and with cruelty have ye 
ruled them. 

“ ‘ And they were scattered, because there is no 
shepherd ; and they became meat to all the 
beasts of the field, when they were scattered. 

“ ‘Therefore, O ye shepherds! hear the word of 
the Lord. Thus saith the Lord God : Behold, 
I am against the shepherds ; and I will require my 
flock at their hand, and cause them to cease from 
feeding the flock ; neither shall the shepherds feed 
themselves any more, for I will deliver my flock 
from their mouth, that they may not be meat 
for them.’ 

“ The Squire had opened his eyes at the first 
words, and now sat bolt upright, staring at the 
Vicar. For the first time since we were children 
and played together, I saw Jekyll frightened. 
For the first time, I pitied the Vicar of Overstoke. 
But the Vicar read on, slowly, painfully — for the 
Prophet had him by the throat.” 


2o6 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


Grayhurst found himself regarding this many- 
mooded girl with impatient interest : a true 
Cynthia of the minute, illogical, intangible, who 
in so brief an interview had presented for his con- 
templation the caprices of a Protean character — 
from a passion of rebellious bitterness to sweet 
surrenders of docility and contrition, from austere 
reserves and ironies to indiscreet impulses of frank- 
ness, from cheerful comedy to sombre despond- 
ency, from frivolities to pious fervors. 

“ Barbara,” he said, “ when your horse shied 
near the thicket, you said I would find Abershaw 
there. How did you know that?” 

“ By his private signal.” 

“ You are mysterious.” 

“ But the signal is plain enough. Whenever I 
approach that man, whenever he approaches me, 
at any time, in any place, however he may be 
concealed, however I may be employed, in what- 
ever company, in whatever mood, without a 
thought for his existence, or an interest in it, his 
presence is revealed to me by a sudden pain, sharp, 
penetrating — here, always just hereT 

“ In the right side, below the shoulder,” said 
Grayhurst. “ I see. And how long does it 
last ? ” 

“ Perhaps a minute, rarely longer.” 

“ And how does it affect you ? ” 

“ At first it alarmed me, and I cried out. That 
was before I had discovered its connection with 


GLAMOURIE.— DRAWING THE LINE.- 207 

the bailiff. It still alarms me when it takes me 
unawares, but I no longer cry out.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ Because it has become a personal thing ; it 
concerns me only ; I would keep it to myself — 
you understand ? ” 

“I understand ; and that is the worst of it.” 

“How?” 

“ It shows that you believe in it.” 

The girl smiled, thoughtfully, even sadly. 

“ How long since your first experience of this 
— what shall I term it ? — symptom ? ” 

“ Symptom will do. Almost a year.” 

“ And how often have you felt it when no 
Abershaw was near ? — frankly now, and honestly, 
in the interest of exact scientific inquiry.” 

“ Never once; of course that is the key to the 
case. Besides, delusions are not so dear to me; 
I have old scores to settle with some delusions of 
mine, and I am armed against them. If my Kit 
had failed me only once or twice, I should have 
taken my ‘ symptom’ to my doctor, and he would 
have applied hallucination to the seat of pain, 
and administered idiosyncrasy internally.” 

“You have been keeping this to yourself, you 
say; then why have you revealed it to me ?” 

“ Because I fancy it has a certain scientific 
interest, as you have suggested ; and it occurred 
to me that, in that light, it might be important to 
provide an intelligent witness to the phenomena ; 


2o8 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


and then, I knew you would not laugh at me. By 
the by, when you have no nobler study to engage 
your mind, I recommend Abershaw as an object 
of interest ; he worships my maid, and cringes to 
Jekyll — though I fail to see the connection.” 

‘‘ And you have not mentioned this matter to 
Dick?” 

“ Not I. He would first laugh at me, and then 
assault the bailiff, for presuming to be mysteriously 
responsible for a twinge in a lady’s shoulder. 
Dick has peculiar views concerning bailiffs, women, 
and vicars.” 

Grayhurst, who had now more food for thought 
than appetite for breakfast, took his leave of 
Barbara at the end of the avenue, and returned 
toward the lodge ; while she rode on to the house, 
where she was received by the Vicar, who had 
come over to confer with the Squire. 

“You have had a pleasant ride, no doubt — in 
agreeable company.” 

“ Delightful, both.” 

“ Once for all, there must be an end of this.” 

“ The rides, or the company? ” 

“ Oh, do not waste your wits in flippant bravado. 
1 draw the line at that beastly Yankee.” 

“ Come here, Caryl! Stand here. From this 
point, you observe, we command an inspiring view 
of the noble domain of Overstoke. If you follow 
my finger, we can trace the limits of the land, 
from Yawdley, beyond Wynhold, to Ausibel. 


GLAMOURIE.— DRAWING THE LINE. 209 

You have taken pains to discover that, at the 
death of the Squire, the estate is to be partitioned 
between Richard Jekyll and Barbara Lynn.” 

“ What stuff is this?” 

Barbara laughed : “ How cross you are ! Don’t 

you see that so long as I can draw that line, you can 
be in no position to draw yours. Come to break- 
fast.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


“ all’s right with the world ! ” 

^ afternoon in midsummer, and all the land 



ii was gasping. “ Buz ! quoth the blue-fly, 
Hum ! quoth the bee.” Leigh Hunt has 
described such a day, in words that pant for leafy 
lanes, and long to nap with “ the swinkt mower ” 
in the shadow of the sheaves. 

Grayhurst sat at his chamber window, and 
nodded to the drowsy verse of Keats, “singing of 
summer in full-throated ease : ” 

“ The poetry of earth is never dead : 

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, 

And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead. 
That is the grasshopper’s ; he takes the lead 
In summer luxury — he has never done 
With his delights ; for when tired out with fun. 

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed." 

As the American tossed back his hair, and 
bared his throat to take the grateful breeze that 
came through the Hurst and over the burn from 
Brignal, the freshness and the fragrance it brought 
to his senses and his soul were as emanations 
from her presence, and waftures of her charm. 


ALLS RIGHT WITH THE WORLD.' 


21 I 


With a sudden, eager impulse he arose ; and with 
the impatience of one who begrudges precious 
moments, gave some necessary touches to his 
hair and his attire, flung on his hat, and went 
out — down the slope, across the bridge, into the 
footpath by the burn, through the Hurst — quick, 
resolved, insistant ; no listless loitering now, no 
whistling as he went for want of thought, no 
lingering to trifle with a fern-plume or a flower ; 
and so straight to the little wicket. 

There he paused, and questioned the garden 
and the porch. There was her low, deep chair, in 
the shadow of the vine ; there was her pretty 
basket, and the book on the wicker table; there was 
Mutzie, sleeping on her stool ; there, on the arm 
of the chair, hung a bright little frock she had 
been making for a child — he smiled and mur- 
mured when he saw it ; there, on the steps, a 
lady’s handkerchief had fallen : had she dropped 
it, going in or coming out ? Was she in the house 
or in the garden ? 

The answer came from the burn ; somewhere 
over there she was singing. He skirted the gar- 
den and traversed the orchard, led by the sound — 
from tree to tree advancing warily, making no 
noise ; he had never seen Winifred by herself. 

Beyond the orchard, where the greensward 
sloped to the stream, the truant brook, “ prattling 
its primrose fancies,” lingered at a hazel bower 
and “ bubbled into an eddying bay ” for her ; and 


212 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


here, where the leafy screen made a lady’s 
chamber of a grassy plot, she sat and paddled 
bare-foot in the burn — and sang : 



O - ver the mountains, And un - der the 



waves ; O - ver the fountains, And un - der the 



K K r q — IP -p S 

' 1 Ti ' 




— 1 l-»i — 


graves; Un - der floods that are deep - est. Which 


\ -\ 1 1 

1 

LJ 

' M 1 1 

r5 

1 — 

t 1 1 



J 



j— ^ j 

^ »- ■ i 

n 

fi 

LTk 

w m 


Nep - tune o - bey ; O - ver rocks that are 



steep -.est, Love will find out the way. 


“ Where there is no place 
For the glow-worm to lie; 

Where there is no space 
For receipt of a fly ; 

Where the midge dare not venture, 

Lest herself fast she lay ; 

If Love come he will enter, 

And soon find out the way.” 

And Grayhurst, captured there between a rap- 
ture and a fear,Jound out his way. 



'' ALL S RIGHT WITH THE WORLDT 


213 


“ Is that a toe I see, ora water-lily ? Ah ! now 
to be a newt or a minnow ! ” he cried. 

As Winifred sang, unconscious of her own 
prophecy, she had reclined on the turfy cushion, 
one hand pillowing her cheek, the other guarding 
the sweet disorder of the petticoat that hungr 
above the water ; and so she lay, and watched the 
finny life of the burn, 

“ With here and there a lusty trout, 

And here and there a grayling.” 

She had loosed her indulgent kerchief, and 
freed to the happy breeze the soft and dimpled 
bounty of her shoulders. Ah ! but she was sur- 
passing sweet and fair ; the classic bust of Glytie, 
incomparable, delectable and chaste, here pulsed 
and flushed in a gentle rural maid. 

But with the first call of Grayhurst’s adven- 
turous challenge, she started erect, and snatched 
the kerchief that lay in the grass ; then shrank, 
and averted her face, blushing in cheek and neck 
and shoulder, yet smiling: like Sir Philip Syd- 
ney’s Philoclea, when “ making shamefacedness 
pleasant, and pleasure shamefaced, she tenderly 
moved her feet, unwonted to feel the naked 
ground, until the touch of the cold water made a 
pretty kind of shrugging come over her body — 
like the twinkling of the fairest among the fixed 
stars.” 


214 


‘AFTER HIS KIND. 


“ Do not fear to put thy feet 
Naked in the river. Sweet ! 

Think not leech, or newt, or toad, 

Will bite thy foot when thou hast trod ; 

Nor let the water, rising high 
As thou wad’st in, make thee cry 
And sob ; but ever live with me. 

And not a wave shall trouble thee." 

“ Ever live with me ! ever live with me ! ” he 
cried, springing forward impetuously, and dropping 
in the grass at her side. “ There ! it is done, in four 
words. Winifred, you drew me, and I had to 
come. How could I think to find you here? 
Now, you should be offended ; now, I should ask 
your pardon ; then we should be kindly recon- 
ciled — and then laugh in each other’s face, for the 
poor humbug of it all. I came with a heart full 
of words ; and I can find only four. I came with 
great news ; and it is old already. I came to ask 
a great question, and I dare not face the answer. 
There’s the prayer ! ” — and he held out a hand, 
trembling and cold. “ If you have the blessing 
for me — put it there ! Or else let me go, go, go ! 
while any manhood is left me.” 

She waited — “ he has more to say ” — not he. 

He waited — ‘‘has she nothing to say? — Wini- 
fred!” 

Then she laid her soft little hand in his, and the 
man was shaken with the tender touch. And 
both were transfigured by the rapture and the 


ALLS RIGHT WITH THE WORLD. 


215 


magic of a great discovery: he had become as 
a little child, and she was as a yearning mother, 
pondering all these things in her heart ; — until 
their lips met, and then the woman did taste of 
the knowledge of good and evil, and immediately 
her eyes were opened, and she knew that her 
ankles were bare. 


When her lover had gone — only to wait for her 
in the arbor or the porch — Lady Goodluck 
remained for a time musing, wondering if ever, 
since the first lover was invented, aught so 
wonderful had happened to a maiden paddling 
barefoot in a burn ; and did that lover kiss her — 
so ? And did that maiden feel so — SO ? And 
what did she do then? And which toe yNdj=> it? 
seeing that that toe could never be the same toj 
her that it had been before. 

And “ John ? " — not a romantic name perhaps, 
but such a useful, durable name, for a family man ; 
such a friendly name too: how could one ever 
quarrel with “John?” But an odd name, now 
that she thinks of it ! How do people pronounce 
it, “ in society ? ” Jon perhaps, mincingly. “ Lord 
Jon Russell ; ” but behind the door, and in his 
arms? — with a mouthful. 

Then she glanced, sidelong, at her shoulders : 
“Oh! oh!” — that dreadful kerchief was lying in 
the grass, rods and rods away, where the poor 
thing had followed him, clinging to his sleeve ; 


2i6 


AFTER HIS HIND. 


and he must have thought — pshaw ! who thinks ? 
Then, in a moment, her dripping feet were in 
her slippers ; and she ran to the house, taking the 
back way, by the bee-hives. Christie Breme was 
in the laundry, regarding her storm-tossed features 
in a bit of looking-glass, and murmuring “ the 
Lord’s will be done! ” when a vision of disheveled 
loveliness took her unawares ; her freckled cheek 
was caught and fondled in a balmy bosom, and 
she was left gasping, with a prayer on her lips and 
soap-suds in her eye. 

In Winifred’s chamber, Judith moved from 
place to place, engaged in little ministries of love : 
indulging her foolish, feeble hands in touches of 
careful tenderness, small tasks of habit rather 
than of need, such as they had learned from long 
years of happy service, mixed with fond triumphs, 
tears and prayers. Again and again she patted 
and stroked the precious counterpane, endeared 
to her by a nurse’s memories and dreams, con- 
secrated by a foster-mother’s yearnings and bene- 
dictions; again and again, with patient persuasion, 
she coaxed the fold of a curtain to droop as she 
had taught it ; again and again she undid this 
thing or that, that those poor fumbling fingers 
might have the fond delusion of doing it over 
again ; again and again she stooped, to pick up 
the pin that was no longer there, or the stray 
thread that never had been ; and as she moved 
from place to place, led by love in dotage, she 


“ ALL'S RIGHT WITH THE WORLD.' 


217 


lingered over a keepsake or a token, and her lips 
moved mutely — communing with by-gones. 

“Judy, dear ! ” 

She turned slowly, for the hinges of age are 
stiff ; and there was Expectation, panting with 
parted lips ; and Wonde-r, big-eyed and perplexed ; 
and Revelation, with her heart in her mouth. 

“ My bonnie ! and where ha’ ye been so long?” 

“At the hazels, with my feet in the burn and 
my head in the sky.” 

“Then ye mun ha’ seed him.” 

“Who’s Atm ? ” 

“ Sure, there’s nobbut the one.” 

“ Only one man ! Why the world’s full of 
them ; a woman can’t show a toe but a man 
jumps — they swarm so.” 

“ That did use to be so, hinnie ; now there’s 
nobbut the one. Happen ye did see him when 
yer yed were i’ the sky. He’s not long from there.” 

“Judith Welcome, I hate nonsense.” 

“Then ye’ll niver bide the man, for he’s full o’t. 
There he is in the porch, restin’ like. Will’t 
please ye to' come in, sir? says I; she’ll be no 
long gone. — Is it Miss Blythe ? says he. — Is the 
man wanderin’ ? thinks I. — No, thankee, says he ; 
I’m quite comfortable here. You see I’m just 
back from heaven, madam (inadam ! he says), and 
I feel tired. With that I was troubled, and I 
stood watchin’ him, wishin’ for you. Then up he 
jumps, and clips me in his arms, and kisses me, he 


2i8 


AFTER HIS HIND, 


does — and me a totterin’ crone ! and he calls me 
Aunt Judy, and asks me can I keep a secret. 
Then I looks into the eyes o’ him, down into the 
heart o’ him ; and my heart did gi’ a great jump 
and a thump ; and Blessed be God ! says I, that 
ha’ brought it to pass ; and blessed be my 
bonnie, that ha’ gi’n me a Shustoke to be maister 
in the dear ow’d house ! 

“‘Shustoke !’ says he, droppin’ into the chair. 
“‘Ay! just a bonny Shustoke,’ says I. ‘Can I 
keep a secret, ye says, Maister Grayhurst. Ay^ 
and catch one too, fine and clever as ye think 
yosel : — with yer Shustoke fingers talkin’, so, when 
ye be talkin’, like Squire Randal ; and yer Shus- 
toke ankle in yer hand (see there now !) across 
yer knee, and ye-r Shustoke yed throwd back, and 
yer Shustoke eyes blinkin’ droll, when ye be list’- 
nin ’, like Squire Ralph ; an’ yer Shustoke flash, 
like Devil Dick — ’ ” 

“ Oh, J udy 1 stop, stop, STOP ! ” 

“Ay! rest here, my bonnie, on the poor old 
heart ; and cry, and cry, and cry, for the great glad- 
ness o’t. If ye could laugh now, I’d be shamed 
for ye. I’d be feared for ye, and for him.” 

“ My beautiful old mammie ! — And then?” 
“And then he says, Aunt Judy, you’re a witch, 
and I’ll have you burned, like Joyce Curzon,says 
he. And all the time Mutzie she did lick his hand, 
and bark and scold to make him talk to her; for 
she were iver main fond o’ him. Oh, but they do 


ALL'S RIGHT WITH THE WORLD." 219 

know, they doggies ! So up he takes her, and runs 
to the pantry, and does just gi’ her the sugar- 
bowl, full ! And O ! but she did eat a pound, that 
sweet she is ; and ’twill be a gracious dispensation 
if she dunna ha’ fits this night.” 

And Grayhurst lingered there, 

“Till every daisy slept, and Love's white star 
Beamed thro’ the thickened cedar in the dusk." 

And if Judith had not found you out, would 
you have told me, John?” 

Surely, to-night, before you slept.” 

Shall you sleep to-night ? ” 

“ How beautiful you are, Winifred ! ” 

Yes — I must be — now 

Why did you not tell us, John?” 

“ It was a freak at first : of pride, of independ- 
ence, even of policy ; to keep my simple quarters 
at the inn ; to recommend myself to the Squire by 
what he might find to approve in me, without 
claim of kindred; to study my English kin-folk 
from a stranger’s point of vantage ; but later, of 
love — to win Winifred Blythe for plain John Gray- 
hurst.” 

But I have been loving you so long that 
I was growing fearful and ashamed ; and these are 
the arms of plain John Grayhurst, and here is a 
kiss for plain John Grayhurst. Now, who are you, 
John ? ” 

“ I have told you of my people, dear, keeping 


220 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


back only a name. My mother, whom I lost in 
my childhood, was Katharine Shustoke of Mary- 
land. The stranger who came to Ausibel and to 
Overstoke, Squire Marmaduke’s ‘kinsman from 
abroad,’ and Jekyll’s grandfather, was ‘ Devil Dick ’ 
Shustoke of Garrison Forest, my grandfather’s 
brother. Now you know how Jekyll comes by his 
name. And Jekyll’s mother, Johanna, was so 
named by her father in memory, no doubt, of his 
grandmother, Johanna Carden, who married in 
Maryland Richard Shustoke, of Wynhold. 

“ In telling you my secret, my love, I am telling 
you, you see, the secret of Jekyll’s birth, which at 
last you share with the Squire. Now you can 
imagine with what eager interest I first heard from 
your lips the story of Devil Dick; and how I was 
startled and bewitched by the sound of that name, 
when it greeted me on the box of the Ausibel 
coach that brought me to Yawdley. — Why do you 
sigh? Of what are you thinking, dear?” 

“ Of the coach that, some day, will take you 
from Yawdley.” 

“Without you, Winifred? The coach is not 
built, nor the wheelwright born ; the wood is in 
the nut, and the iron in the mine, and the day 
is in my grave.” 

With a sweet devoutness she folded her palms : 
“ The Lord be gracious to you, my love!” she said ; 
“ the Lord lead you, and keep you always.” 

And he kissed the pious hands, and departed. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


A NOCTURNE. 

L ate in the night again ; the lights of The 
Chequers had been extinguished, and all was 
still in the house; Toby Hindman, having speeded 
his parting guests (the schoolmaster and the 
apothecary, who, being bachelors and scientific, 
were debaters and late sitters), had scored another 
day in the monotonous diary of a country inn ; and 
even Dolly Sparrow had ceased to wag and twit- 
ter, and had retired to her chaste perch. 

Grayhurst, from his look-out, had been reading 
his own thoughts by the light of Winifred’s lamp, 
as it pierced the sombre shadows of the Hurst; 
and he had followed it from her pretty cell over 
the porch to the western window of her chamber. 
Now it had bidden him good-night, and he was 
left to entertain a bustling company 6f conjectures 
and fancies, importunate and curious; for the air 
was charged with plot, and night unto night im- 
parted secrets. 

“ How strange the distant bay 
Of dogs ! how wild the note 
Of cocks that scream for day, 

In homesteads far remote ! 


222 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


“ How strange and wild to hear 
The old and crumbling tower, 

Amid the darkness, suddenly 
Take life and speak the hour! ” 

“You and I,” Winifred had said, “must watch 
and guard Barbara.” 

Then Winifred was troubled for the girl ; but 
what was the complexion of her fears, and whence 
came they? Were they vague and general, engen- 
dered by anxious observation of Barbara’s nature, 
warped by an ominous experience, and her mys- 
terious caprices of mood? Or were they particu- 
lar and definite, even a logical acceptance of the 
girl’s dark horror of Abershaw ? 

Not that : for Barbara had assured him that she 
had confided in no one but him ; he recalled her 
words, “ a personal thing — I would keep it to 
myself;” and the significant portent of her 
explanation, that even in revealing it to him she 
only thought “ to provide an intelligent witness 
to the phenomena.” 

And Abershaw’s jealousy of Jekyll? groundless 
surely, possil^y insane, but so real as to alarm the 
cool, sagacious Dolly ; so real as to extort an 
adroit hint from Barbara herself, “ he worships 
my maid, and cringes to Jekyll, though I fail to 
see the connection : ” which, being interpreted, is 
“ Where are your eyes? ” 

And now Grayhurst recalled certain light words 
of Barbara’s, on another occasion. They were 


A NOCTURNE 


223 


speaking, he and she, of the ineffable charm of 
Phyllis’s rustic beauty — “ the prettiest low-born 
lass that ever ran on the greensward ; ” and the 
American, while for his own part confessing that 
he must be blind or bloodless to be insensible to it, 
expressed his astonishment at Dick’s stolid indif- 
ference to the girl’s delectable looks and ways. 

“ As to that,” said Barbara, “ I am not so sure. 
We women recognize a form of ‘ indifference ’ that 
is not far removed from worship ; it is so elabor- 
ate and so expressive.” 

Thus, Dolly’s disclosure, and her vigilance ; 
Barbara’s verbal artifice, with its veiled meaning ; 
Kit’s dramatic lurking and prowling, at the inn, 
at the lodge, in the avenue : these were the several 
ways by which the American’s conjectures were 
led to the same conclusion, that Abershaw was 
jealous of Jekyll — of careless Dick, with his curt 
nod, and his “ so, Phyllis ! ” 

But how could the senseless passion of this 
gipsy fellow concern the lady ? Even if it presaged 
peril to Jekyll, by what imaginable relation could 
it inspire her with that hysterical horror which 
she described as ‘ personal ’ ? 

True, there was the assignation in the avenue, . 
the embrace, the kiss, the sudden flight when the 
American cunningly startled the lovers with his 
song; but was that surely Barbara? That ques- 
tion had never vexed his mind before; was the 
spell of Abershaw upon him now? Well, much 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


224 

of indiscriminate adventure must be granted to 
the grandson, of Devil Dick Shustoke ; but it was 
hard to imagine Richard Jekyll, with his occa- 
sional flashes of fine arrogance, partaking of 
amorous dalliance from the same dish with a 
mongrel gipsy. 

And then there were signs of secret under- 
standing between Jekyll and Barbara, signs that 
Winifred had evidently noted ; for when they 
would have disposed of the Vicar’s night-rider 
with light tosses of concerted “ chaff,” she had 
recalled them to the subject with a certain grave 
persistence ; and he had not forgotten her charge 
to him, “ Find the man ! and when you are sure 
of him, tell no one but me.” 

The ribbon that Mutzie found in the church- 
yard — how much had it revealed to Winifred ? 
Has Cicely ever again gone ghosting by the lych- 
gate ? or does she too sit at her window belated, 
and guess conundrums by the light of the 
moon? — employment more proper to a bewitched 
Yankee, outwatching his lady’s light. 

Plot and counterplot and catastrophe, ghost 
and lover and villain, and maiden all forlorn ! on 
the same tame sequestered stage where “ the 
teeming hen doth lay her egg each day, the while 
the conduits of the kine run cream for wine.” 

“ What’s that ? ” 

A clatter of galloping came from the bridge, 
breaking the stillness of the sweet country night 


A NOCTURNE. 


225 


with rude resonance ; and a rider, dashing through 
a flood of moonlight, lightly breasted the slope 
and plunged into the shadow of the noble trees 
that embowered the forefront of the inn. With 
a murmur of astonishment, Grayhurst sprang to a 
window that overlooked the porch and, screened 
by the curtain, marked well both man and horse, 
as they charged into the farther light and, briskly 
turning, took a lane that left the road some rods 
beyond The Chequers, to rejoin the Sylcaster pike 
at the end of the High-street. 

For some moments the American hesitated, 
pondering perplexed ; then, with sudden plan and 
purpose, he equipped himself as for a walk, cau- 
tiously descended the servants’ stair, let himself 
out by a side-door into the coach-yard and, mak- 
ing the circuit of the stables, struck into ‘a foot- 
path that skirted the lower side of the Hurst and 
traversed the fields to the Overstoke out-houses — 
a time-worn path, that had been trodden by shep- 
herds and milkmaids, making a short cut between 
the Manor-House and the inn. 

As he advanced with rapid, resolute strides, he 
mentally explored the event that had excited him 
so. One circumstance especially, by its unexpect- 
edness and its significance, had impelled him, 
with a most disturbing impression, in the direc- 
tion he was now taking. 

Barbara’s pretty mare. Pansy, was a gift from 
Jekyll, and was “ own sister ” to his favorite Minx. 


226 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


So remarkable was their resemblance, in points, 
action and color, that whenever by a rare chance 
they made their appearance together, even the 
grooms came out to see. 

“ If ’tweren’t for the splash,” they said, “ ’twould 
be just wonnerful.” On Pansy’s pretty neck, 
under her mane, was a “ splash ” of vivid white, 
that showed when she tossed her head in her pert 
conceited way, for she was consumed with vanity. 

Now, as man and horse emerged from the 
shadow of The Chequers and sprang into the 
moonlight beyond, there was the pert toss, and the 
mane tumbled by the night breeze, displaying the 
bright white mark ; and what the American saw 
from his loophole was Jekyll mounted on Bar- 
bara’s mare. 

The path ended at the stables, and Grayhurst 
made straight for Pansy’s lodging ; the door 
stood wide, and the mare was gone. An open 
window in the rear admitted the moonlight, and 
he could see that Barbara’s side-saddle was in its 
place ; but one of the Squire’s saddles, which 
usually hung near it, was missing now. 

He had exchanged a late good-night with Jekyll 
at the inn, and had seen him take the road for 
Wynhold, riding Minx. And now he remembered 
that Dick had pressed him heartily to ride with 
him, and pass the night at the Croft; but the 
lover, flattered by Winifred’s light, bethought him 
of sweeter company for his fancy and his dreams, 


A NOCTURNE. 


227 


and so made excuse. Had Jekyll returned on foot 
from Wynhold, seized by a freak of restlessness 
or sport, and revived this puerile exploit to tease 
his friends again ? If so, he must re-appear pres- 
ently, to restore Pansy to her place, and to “cover 
his tracks ” at the stable ; and Grayhurst would lie 
in wait for him, a concealed and amused spec- 
tator. 

He had no weary time to wait. The sound of 
a trotting horse advancing, not by the avenue, but 
by the lower fields on the Yawdley side, warned 
him to get in hiding ; and he had not more than 
time to retreat to a convenient cover, where un- 
seen he might observe the approach of his erratic 
comrade, when the mare was at the door, and 
the rider, dismounting briskly, led Pansy to her 
box. 

The front of the stable was in deep shadow, 
and all was still, except for slight sounds by which 
the American’s trained ear easily followed the 
movements within. 

Then Jekyll came out and, having made the 
door fast, stood for a moment as if listening. 
Grayhurst supposed he would depart, either by the 
avenue, or by the shorter field-path ; but to his 
surprise the young man took the direction of the 
Manor-House and, hurriedly making the circuit of 
the offices, turned at the eastern wing — while the 
American followed curiously, skulking in the 
shade, and smiling as he thought of Abershaw, on 


228 


AFTER ms KIND. 


the night when Dolly revealed the bailiff in a cor- 
responding adventure. 

On this side of the house were the apartments 
of Barbara. Here was her dressing-room, once 
Squire Marmaduke's snuggery ; and here was that 
stationary ladder, which he had erected under his 
window to afford him convenient egress in the 
witching hours when, on astronomical pursuits in- 
tent, he would rove with the bat and the owl, and 
commune with the constellations. 

That window was the barred and bolted ap- 
proach to penetralia sacred to the privacy of a 
young English lady — to her closet, to her bed- 
chamber, to all that is most chaste, most conse- 
crated in her personal life, — to the honor of Mil- 
dred Shustoke’s orphan and Randal Shustoke’s 
ward. 

And now John Grayhurst saw her kinsman, and 
his own, run lightly up the steps, and pass in with 
easy access to a daring welcome. And the Amer- 
ican gnashed his teeth and groaned. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


A MINISTER OF GRACE AND A GRACELESS MIN- 
ISTER. 

N ot with the aiacrity of an eager lover, but 
with the heavier steps of a troubled and care- 
laden friend, Grayhurst took the way to Brignal, on 
the morning after his eventful vigil at the Overstoke 
stables and under the window of Barbara’s cham- 
ber. With head depressed he crept, communing 
with his fears ; never did the path appear so short 
to him, the ferns so weed-like and the burn 
so dull. Could he tell her ? Must he mislead her ? 
What malice of circumstance was this, that 
he must check with a tale of shame and sorrow 
the glory and the gladness of her kiss ? To-day 
the little wicket yielded too lightly to his 
touch, the paces to the trellis were too few. 

“ Have you discovered the night-rider.^” He 
must stop that question on her lips, with a lover’s 
pleasant trick ; he must beguile her with sweet 
important nothings ; the fortune of incoherent 
talk, beginning in You and Me and ending in Me 


230 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


and You, may befriend him. No time to be 
guarded now — for there she is. 

“ You are not well, John. I saw you coming 
— and you poked. What is it, dear? ” 

“A mere nothing, my darling; headache, you 
know, [whopping lie ! ] The night was hot [per- 
verted truth !] and I could not sleep {perjury by 
inference ! ”] 

“Poor John! where does it ache? Rest it 
here ! ” 

O, partial distribution of bounties, and bosoms 
uncertain and coy ! A better man, with an hon- 
est ache, would have been left to groan forlorn, 
propping his pains on his vulgar fist. 

“ But I miss the cool morning-gown, my Wini- 
fred. You are dressed for the road ; were you 
going to the village ?” 

“You lazy John! I have been to the Croft 
while you were sleeping ; no, tossing and growl- 
ing, poor thing ! ” 

“ To the Croft ! ” 

“Why not? How amazed you look! John, 
you are in love. Yes, to the Croft. Dick came 
for me in the dog-cart, before I was up. Old 
Nanny Cole — his house-keeper, you know, — had 
been ill all night ; her favorite enemy, sciatica, was 
upon her, and she had filled the Croft with groans 
and pennyroyal. Dick was at his wits’ end ; and 
had scalded Nanny’s legs, filled his own hair with 
mustard, and got hartshorn in his e^e, At mid- 


A MINISTER OF GRACE. 


231 


night, he kicked the dog, kissed Nanny, mounted 
Minx, and rode on a run to Ausibel for the doc- 
tor, leaving his man. Snaffle, with the leg.” 

You mean Yawdley.” 

“No, Ausibel, — why Yawdley? Nanny will 
have none but the Ausibel man. He flatters her, 
you see : tells her she’s an interesting case, and a 
Christian example, and that her legs are peculiar. 
Soon after day-break, Dick left the doctor at the 
Croft, and came with the dog-cart for your heart’s 
delight — that’s me — and the red flannel. You 
should have seen Minx ; she fairly staggered com- 
ing back to Brignal. Why, John, how strangely 
you stare, sitting there ! What is in your 
mind ? ” 

“The wonder of it, dear, and the revelation. 
Jekyll as a ministering angel ! and yet I remem- 
ber to have heard such things of his namesake. 
Devil Dick Shustoke.” 

“Ah! you do not know him, John. On such 
occasions he is very lovable and very droll. One 
moment he stamps and swears, as he spills the 
medicine or spoils the gruel ; the next he mixes ten- 
derness with jokes, in such unexpected ways that 
the poor old Nannies laugh between their groans. 
When disease or disaster comes to a cottage, look 
out for Devil Dick, with his happy blunders and 
his thoughtful fun. 

“ I rubbed Nanny’s leg, while he held her 
hand, and beguiled her with heartless nonsense ; 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


232 

and I am sure that if she had been required to 
forego the one comfort or the other, she would 
have dismissed me without remorse. They all 
love him, my poor folk, and confide in him, and are 
at their ease with him.” 

“ Except Phyllis Hindman,” said Grayhurst. 

“ Ah !you have observed that ? Yes, that is odd. 
I sometimes fancy he dislikes the girl.” 

“ And yet Abershaw is jealous of Jekyll.” 

‘^How absurd! Now say that I am jealous of 
Phyllis.” 

“ Witness Dolly Sparrow, my lady.” 

“ That bouncing bar-maid 1 ” 

“Well, yes: Dolly’s ^ household motions ’ are 
somewhat light and free ; but if you had ever seen 
her off duty, when she shuts one eye and thinks, you 
would have discovered under the bar-maid’s ‘ vir- 
gin liberty’ a shape ‘ to haunt, to startle and way- 
lay ; ’ and she has waylaid Abershaw, and startled 
me!” 

“ What are you coming to ? ” 

“ To Abershaw, by way of Dolly, who has dis- 
covered that the gentle gipsy lurks in the stables 
when Jekyll is late at the inn; and one night, 
when Dick had taken the road for Wynhold on 
foot, she showed me Abershaw skulking behind 
the hedgerows, and dogging his steps.” 

“ Oh John ! you can never believe that.” 

“ How should I know, dear? Abershaw is in 
love ; so am I. Either of us may believe any thing 


A MINISTER OF GRACE. 


233 


of the other. Besides, there’s Barbara. She say 
Dick’s indifference to the peculiar attractions 0 
her maid is ‘ elaborate, and expressive ’ — which is 
just what the bailiff might say, if he had a clever 
woman’s way of putting things.” 

“ Then you conclude that Barbara is suspicious 
of Phyllis, as to the girl’s relations with Jekyll ? ” 

“That, dear, is the distinctly feminine form of 
the proposition. Being masculine, I conclude that 
Barbara is suspicious of Jekyll, as to his relations 
with Phyllis. See how gender determines the 
direction by which we arrive at the same conclu- 
sion ! Male and female created He them.” 

“ Then join your thought to mine, my love, in 
the charity that doth not behave itself unseemly, 
nor thinketh any evil ; for it would grieve me, 
dear, most of all, now — to think that you 

could wrong the girl by even a playful quip.” 

“You speak gravely, Winifred, even strangely. 
To re-assure you I will go far, and say that 
I ” 

“You shall say nothing of the kind, sir,” stop- 
ping his mouth with her hand. “You men all 
fall in love with Phyllis; even Dick would leave 
off snubbing her long enough to fight for her. 
And no wonder; for she is the consummate flower 
of beauty, modesty and sweetness, in an English 
country maid. There may be a Phyllis once in a 
century or so; Ben Jonson’s Charis was such 
another. You remember? 




234 


AFTER HTS KIND. 


“ Have you seen but a bright lily grow. 

Before rude hands have touched it? 

Have you marked but the fall o’ the snow, 

Before the soil hath smutched it ? 

Have you felt o’ the wool o’ the beaver, 

Or swan’s down ever ? 

Or have smelt o’ the bud o’ the briar, 

Or the nard in the fire ? 

Or have tasted the bag o’ the bee ? 

O so white ! O so soft ! O so sweet is she ! ” 

‘‘And for all that,” said Grayhurst, “ Jekyll 
flouts her; and I have heard Thorpe scold her.” 

“The Vicar? indeed! How did he find the 
occasion?” 

“ It ' was in the avenue one day. We met 
Phyllis coming from the inn ; she had spoken with 
Abershaw at the lodge ; and apropos of that or noth- 
ing, the Vicar took her to task, with professional 
ostentation. Jekyll promptly snubbed him and 
dismissed the girl, with the air of one who says 
‘this is my affair’ — which struck me as peculiar; 
and the girl'seemed pleased.” 

“ How did that strike you, John ? ” 

“ Also as peculiar. Why should she be pleased ? 
His tone was masterful, not gracious; and she is 
a timid thing.” 

“ I think I understand. But first tell me, dear, 
what do you make of the Vicar?” 

“The Vicar interests me, Winifred. In spite of 
all that is false in his life, and offensive in his 
temper and his manners, he challenges my charity, 


A MINISTER OF GRACE. 


235 


and compels my sympathy : perhaps because I am 
not to the manner born, and have yet to be recon- 
ciled to the argument of your peculiar institution 
of church ‘ livings ’ — which (as I understand it) 
makes it possible that a priest of the oracles of 
God 7naj^ be a mere functionary ; which may 
bestow a sacred office, for flattery or policy, upon 
a presumptuous mercenary, and elevate to a spuri- 
ous, ironical reverence an unedified mountebank^ 
without the sense to be embarrassed or the con- 
science to be ashamed. I might go farther, with- 
out departing from the record of Overstoke 
church ; for there I find a certain vicar installed 
by favor, and shamefully 'suspended ’ a few years 
later, for gross debauchery. 

“ I regard this vicar of yours as the product of 
a deplorable system ; and at times I have fancied 
that his offenses of temper and manners may be 
the painful expression of his own bitter protest 
against his own existence, self-defeated, and 
mocked with self-contempt. 

“ With all my heart I pity Thorpe ; the tempt- 
ations of a man in a position so false and des- 
perate exceed those of your wanton, comfortable 
fellows ; and in fair play we may praise him, as a 
convict may be praised, for keeping his cell clean.” 

“That is nobly severe, John, and reverent, and 
generous. Some other time I will try to show you 
that it is not as just as you would wish it to be ; 
our 'peculiar institution ' is not wholly responsi- 


236 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


ble for the Thorpes of to-day, or for the Revd. 
Jasper Shustokes of an earlier period. But just 
now I am most concerned to think that the 
wretched man at the Manse is not even entitled to 
the convict’s praise.” 

Winifred ! — What is this ? ” 

“ Sit closer, John ; I must speak low — So ! Now 
amuse yourself with this, and please do not inter- 
rupt me and she laid her plump little hand in 
his. 

Last night, when you said good-night so 
early ” 

Lovers’ good-nights are always early, dear ; 
the late ones are good-mornings.” 

Acquiescent caresses ! more or less imbecile. 

Last night, when you left me in the path near 
/he burn, and disappeared beyond the bridge, I 
lingered there for some moments, listening to 
your steps ; and then started to return to the house. 
In the very heart of tire Hurst, where tl>e shad- 
ows are deepest, I was startled by a call, ‘ Lady 
Goodluck, — dear lady ! — O, please ! ’ 

“ The voice was familiar ; and yet I did not 
recognize it at first, it was so broken, so fluttering. 
I was not alarmed ; that ‘ Lady Goodluck ’ is the 
password of my poor cottagers ; it stands for love 
always, and often for pain ; I have heard it at all 
hours, and in all places hereabouts. Before I 
could respond with a word of encouragement, 
there was rustling and panting in the shrubbery. 


A MINISTER OF GRACE. 


237 


and Phyllis stood in the path. She had been 
watching and waiting for me ; and, as I afterward 
gathered from her almost incoherent explanation, 
she had seen us leave the wicket, and had retired 
out of hearing into the cover of the trees — troubled, 
even in her greater trouble, lest she should have 
offended us already. John, • this innkeeper’s 
daughter is one of nature’s ladies ; and the woman 
who can give her lessons in innate delicacy must 
be too fine to be a duchess. 

“ Her agitation was most painful : as I held her 
in my arms, she was all shaken with sobs ; again 
and again she raised her head from my shoulder, 
and let it droop backward, in such a limp helpless 
way — sighing long and deep, while the poor heart 
heaved audibly. It was dreadful, that wild out- 
burst of emotion in a creature usually so pent-up 
and so quiet, so still because so deep. 

“ It was long before she could speak ; every 
word burst in a sob or a moan. I soothed her as 
best I could, and led her to the little bench under 
the great elm ; and as we sat there in the dark, I 
hushed her when she tried to speak, and kissed 
and fondled her to make her cry, to wash a chan- 
nel for her wits, you see. And, oh, how she did 
cry, John ! it was just heavenly. 

At last she was quiet, only sobbing softly, 
like a little child. Then it came into my mind to 
ask her a strange question, a woman’s question, 
without a reason and without a doubt. 


238 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


“ Now tell me, dear, I said — Who is he? ** 

Dick Jekyll ! " cried Grayhurst, leaping to his 
feet. 

Caryl Thorpe ! ” said Winifred, sitting still 
and speaking softly. 

“ Oh, the Devil’s delight ! ” and he went strid- 
ing over the floor; with clenched fists. 

“ Now, sir, if you storm, I’ll stop. Come here ! 
Sit closer, and try both hands, you troublesome 
fellow. If you interrupt me again — oh, John! if 
I had ever seen you look like that 1 ” 

“ Did I make faces, dear ? Well, the dose is 
nauseous. Thorpe, you say. My darling, is the 
story such as you can tell to me? ” 

“To you, John ? — O, yes 1 ” and her eyes were 
bright with the courage of love and faith. “Phyl- 
lis had been sent to the Manse with a message 
— some small household matter — from Mrs. Penny- 
weight to the Vicar’s housekeeper. Dame Trimble. 
Her errand was done, and she was about to 
return, when Thorpe, who must have been wait- 
ing at his window, called her into the study. He 
received her with strange affability, holding her 
hand familiarly as he led her to a seat, and ad- 
dressing her with a certain silly playfulness. 
‘’Twere not like the Vicar, lady,’ Phyllis said; 

‘’twere more like the decanter on the table.’ 

Was not that shrewd, John, and quaintly put ? ” 
He nodded : “ That excellent authority, the 

decanter, is heard from at last.” 


A MINISTER OF GRACE. 


239 


“ As she sat there, embarrassed, half frightened, 
anxious to escape, he spoke of her father, ‘ my 
worthy Hindman, a thoroughly good fellow and a 
capital innkeeper ; ’ but wondered that he did not 
have a sharper eye to business than to put his 
lovely daughter out of sight, when the fame 
of her remarkable beauty should be making the 
fortune of The Chequers. — 

“ John dear, I can not go on with the shame- 
ful tipsy stuff ; you know the strain. He sat there 
holding her hand, growing more and more reck- 
less, trying to taint the imagination and turn the 
head of the helpless thing, who could not assail 
him, who could only tremble and cry. Then he 
arose and closed the door; and pretending to 
pity and console her, suddenly grasped her in his 
brutal arms, and kissed her most offensively, 
whispering — Oh, John ! whispering — ” 

“ Stop ! By Heaven, thi^ is too much ! I forbid 
you, Winifred, to defile the tender purity of your 
own mind, or my honorable thought of that poor 
child, with another word of this loathsome busi- 
ness. There, dear! don’t cry, don’t cry ! ” 

“ That is all, John. I do not know what he 
said ; when Phyllis came to that, she covered her 
ears with her hands, and ran from me distracted, 
crying, ‘O what ever did I do? what ever did I 
do?’ 

“ My love, I humbly thank my Lord and Father, 
that He has been graciously pleased to cast my 


240 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


lines in this obscure and peaceful place, where I 
have never known a wanton woman or a profligate 
man. — When all the house was still, I led Phyllis 
to my room, and there I saw the most shameful 
sight I have ever seen : the marks of an English 
clergyman’s polluting fingers in the tender flesh 
of a chaste young girl.” 

The American sat silent and thoughtful ; here 
was serious work for him. 

And now, John, what are we to do — you 
and I? for the Squire, and Dick, and Barbara, are 
out of the question.” 

Yes,” said Grayhurst, “ there must be no 
scandal. You are sure that Phyllis will be silent?” 

“Never fear. Her reserve and self-control are 
remarkable ; and now she feels that a great shame 
has been put upon her, and she would hide it by 
any means. It was in her dismay and horror, and 
her great fear of Thorpe, that she fled to me. She 
says she broke away from him, she knows not 
how, and hid for hours in the churchyard, wait- 
ing for the dark, that she might make her way 
unseen, to Brignal. She fears the violence of her 
father ; she has a keen sense of Barbara’s measured 
scorn ; she spoke with touching pity of the Squire’s 
outraged pride, for she is devoted to the sweet 
old man ; but mpre than all, and with a strange 
persistence dwelling upon it, recurring to it 
again and again, .she seemed to dread the impet^T- 
ous temper of Jekyll. When I suggested — it was 


A MINISTER OF GRACE. 


241 


just my cunning, John — that he might be the right 
man to deal with the Vicar, she cried ‘ O, no ! O, 
no ! ’ and fell on her knees, clasping my hands, 
and imploring me to ‘ let the poor Vicar go. 
’Twere but the wine, lady; ’twere only the 
wine. And what am I, that gentle folks should 
be hurt for me? Mr. Jekyll, he did never like the 
Vicar ; and oh ! but he be a wild gentleman, when 
his blood is up — that hot and hasty! Mr. Jekyll 
he would just ruin us all.’ 

“ So I said, Mr. Grayhurst then? Shall I speak 
to Mr. Grayhurst, Phyllis? And John, what do 
you think she did, that sagacious girl? She 
smiled through her tears, and kissed my hand, and 
smiled again, and said, ‘You know best, lady.’ ” 

“ We‘ must bribe Phyllis,” said Grayhurst, “ or 
we are lost. Now, Winifred, you know, these 
people, and I must be guided by you. You have 
said that the others are out of the question. 
The Squire, because — ” 

“ Because he would be overwhelmed with shame 
and remorse. It was he, you remember, who 
imagined (dear heart !) that he had found a fine 
lover for his passive niece. Besides, I have never 
Seen the Squire angry but once. I pray that I 
may never see that again.” 

“ And Jekyll ? ” 

“Would surely horsewhip Thorpe, in the High- 
^reet.” 

“ Then Grayhurst ? ” 


242 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


“Ah! if you will, John — for Barbara’s sake.” 

“ You and I then, Winifred, will persuade the 
gentle shepherd of Overstoke to skip to fresh pas- 
tures of enterprise, where ‘ livings ’ are got by the 
sweat of men’s faces. 

“ By the by, your ladyship ! While your minis- 
tering angel was tearing away toward Ausibel, 
with a mind set on liniment and old Nanny’s legs, 
I saw him, with these eyes, in plain moonlight, ride' 
by The Chequers, with a light heart and a flowing 
rein — Funny! is it not?” 


CHAPTER XX. 


THE OTHER WOMAN. — BARBARA'S TRAP. — EXIT 
VICAR. 

I '' HE Squire had gone to Ausibel, to dine with 
the justices at the Hotel Montmorenci, 
(“ Bag-o’-Nails " aforetime), that degenerate hos- 
telry which had so scandalized the devout con- 
servatism of Toby Hindman, by its effeminate 
sign and its masculine bar-maid ; and Miss Lynn 
was left to her own devices at Overstoke, to 
extract such diversion as she might from the 
companionship of her interesting maid. For 
Phyllis’s mind, which had once been as candid and 
plain to the ken of her young mistress as a dia- 
gram of their simple parish, had lately developed 
regions of emotional mist and haze, which contin- 
ually challenged this adventurous Barbara to 
excursions of exploration, — in the hope of pene- 
trating, by routes not laid down in the bed-room 
map, to some centre of startling discovery. And 
to-day she hovered on the borders of Phyllisland, 
and reconnoitered for an opening, with cunning 
strategy of studied unconsciousness and friendly 
spite. 


244 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


The young women had the house to themselves ; 
even Mrs. Pennyweight, emboldened by the 
Squire’s rare absence, had gone to Yawdley, to 
accomplish some small shopping on her own 
account ; and in Barbara’s chamber Phyllis had 
been “doing ” her lady’s hair. 

“ You are a patient creature, Phyllis,” said Bar- 
bara ; “and your self-control is lovely. I know it 
would often be a great comfort to you to give my 
hair a vicious twitch ; but you never do. If I were 
in your place, and you in mine, I should feel like 
strewing the floor with that distracting crop of 
yours, or snatching your scalp, like a red Indian. 
By the by, I wonder if that is the reason there 
are so many* bald Americans, as I have read. I 
must ask Mr. Grayhurst if he wears his own 
scalp.” 

“Ah, but you must be just joking, miss. Who 
could ever think of hurting this pretty hair ? And 
I’ll tell you a secret. Miss Barbara : I did steal 
some — twenty long fine hairs I. did steal, and now 
another one — see ! that is one hair for every year 
of your life; and when you are the Vicar’s lady, 
and do have a smarter maid, and I do go back 
to my place in the inn, that shall be my keepsake, 
and I’ll be fain to wear it in my little gold locket 
o’ Sundays, along with my mother’s that’s gone.” 

“Now I know, Phyllis, why at times I sit here 
forgetting and remembering : not I, but that sweet 
little Barbara, docile and grateful, and good ! with 


THE OTHER WOMAN. 


245 


my mother in my heart, and an angel at my back 
hair. Oh ! you, you, you ! Why ever are you a 
mere woman, — to be fondled, and feared, and 
envied, and hated, and wooed ? Serving me like 
a saint, and searching me through and through, 
like a witch. Oh ! you, you, you ! ” 

And thrice she kissed the scared, astonished 
maid, in headlong fashion: “an English girl that 
hath a devil ; ” and her devil rent her with a pas- 
sion of sobs. 

“ Hold your tongue ! ” she cried. Phyllis had 
not uttered a word, but only waited, tender and 
troubled. 

“ Sit here, on this stool ! ” said Barbara. “ I 
must know how it feels to do the other woman’s 
hair;” and now she laughed, an odd little laugh, 
with a thought in it. 

Phyllis sat at Barbara’s feet ; the pins were 
drawn, and the auburn billow rolled softly to the 
floor. Barbara gathered it in her hands, and 
turned it in fine masses, now to the light, now to 
the shade, to catch the sheen or the shadow of it, 
marking how the gold did deftly blend with the 
red and brown. 

“ Phyllis,” said Miss Lynn, “ I have something 
to tell you, that I really think you ought to 
know.” 

The girl did not start, nor turn her head ; her 
sudden pallor was not seen. 

“ I trust it be nowt that’s sad, miss.” 


246 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


That depends upon how it might strike the 
average angel. Most women would be amused. 
Phyllis, you are absurdly and tediously beauti- 
ful.” 

“That be no blame to me, miss; nor any joy. 
I’d fain change with Christie Breme, but for the 
love I bear her.” 

“ Oh ! you know it then, the difference between 
Christie and Phyllis.” 

“ Ay ! I do know the difference, and I’m not 
proud of it ; but ’tis not the kind you think. I’d 
give this poor foolish face o’ mine, and thankful, 
for the least o’ Christie’s heart.” 

“ What nonsense ! when you can get a whole 
heart for it, in a fine husband. If I were a man. 
I’d fight a parish and fool a county for you. And 
what a pair we’d be, Phyllis ! Oh, for coat and 
trousers, and beard and swagger, and the domi- 
neering stride ! I’m sure I’d make a most oppres- 
sive man. I have the height: why. I’m almost as 
tall as Mr. Jekyll ; and the insolence ? that’s easy ; 
and the heartlessness would come naturally — 
bullying you, my dear. Stand up, and let us take 
a look at ourselves in the glass. Now, that’s what 
I call a sonnet in hair.” 

“ Oh, oh ! ” cried Phyllis. “ How ever did you 
doit? Was there- ever any thing so lovely ? Ah, 
but I’m ashamed, miss ! I do feel like a lady.” 

“ You conceited, red-headed thing ! You mean 
you feel as a lady feels when she looks like a 


THE OTHER WOMAN. 


247 


delusion and a snare. Now, I have an idea: Get 
out my rose-pink gown with the black Spanish 
lace, the one I astonished the Aldridges with, 
when they came over from Great Barr to sur- 
prise us so tremendously ; and I’ll show you 
something 


“ Something more than 
Taffeta or tissue can, 

Or rampant feather, or rich fan.” 

Phyllis stared, and Barbara laughed. 

Well, the rose-pink, quick! — so! Now put 
it on.” 

“ Oh, Miss Barbara! I never could.” 

“ Pshaw ! Do as I tell you. I must be 
amused ; ’tis deadly dull here.” 

And as the girl retired, reluctant and shame- 
faced, to the dressing-room, Barbara drummed on 
a window-pane, humming a tune, and watching 
the avenue; now drumming, now humming, now 
both together, but always watching the avenue ; 
and once she stamped her little foot impatiently. 

Then Phyllis came forth, and stood blushing ; 
and Barbvira, turning, gazed and gazed with 
parted lips, and drew a long breath of admiration. 

‘‘No wonder!” she murmured. Then aloud: 
“ Well, how does it fit ? Like a glove. What’s 
the matter ? ” 

“ The bodice, miss— it be that low ; you would 
not be pleased.” 


248 


AFTER ms KIND. 


“ ’Tis the fashion, you goose ; nothing could be 
more correct. Now, you look like a lady.” 

“ If you please, miss, ’twere nicer when I felt 
like one.” 

“You vision! Oh, for the trousers and the 
swagger ! Phyllis, let’s run away — to America ; ” 
and she sang, 

“ On johnny-cake the ladies dine, 

And all the girls are superfine 
In that new coun-terie." 

“ Barbara 1 Where are you ? ” cried a voice 
from the stair. 

“Who is that? Mr. Jekyll? Yes, Dick — in a 
moment. Now, Phyllis, stay so till I return ; Mr. 
Jekyll will not remain long. Do not remove the 
dress, or meddle with it. I know a trick or two 
with Spanish lace that will make a poem of you, 
and set you to music ; ” and she ran lightly down 
to the hall. 

Jekyll had come over to tell the Squire of a 
promising colt he had found, on a farm near 
Ausibel : “ a beauty,” he said, “ fora light weight ; 
he will make a capital mount for you, Bab.” 

Then Barbara spoke of Grayhurst ; what had 
become of him? Why was he not with Jekyll? 

“I parted from him at the lodge. He said he 
must not inflict his dulness upon you.” 

“What notion is that ? He is never dull.” 

“ So I have always thought, until yesterday and 


THE OTHER WOMAN. 


249 


to-day. Now I suspect he is growing home-sick ; 
I found him silent, falling into brown studies ; 
once or twice I could have fancied his manner 
was cold ; but that’s absurd — the dear old boy ! ” 

“ What can it be ? Surely not Winifred,” said 
Barbara; “she could never be such a simpleton.” 

“ What has Winifred to do with it ? ” 

“ Everything. Where are your eyes ? ” 

“ If you mean they have come to a sentimental 
understanding ” 

“A neat way of putting it, Dick; but slightly 
finical. I think they are going to ‘ make a match ’ 
of it: which is vulgar perhaps, but perspicuous.” 

“Hallelujah! If the production of matches is 
a celestial industry, I think we may look for the 
factory mark on such a coupling as that. Those 
two must have been assigned to each other from 
the beginning of the world.” 

“ I thought you burned your candle before the 
shrine of Saint Winifred.” 

“Once I did, devoutly ; but she snuffed it out. 
By the by, has Grayhurst ever called at the 
Manse ? ” 

“Not he; the Manse disapproves of the 
Yankee. Why do you ask ? ” 

“ Because, after he left me, he turned into the 
Manse lane.” 

“That might be anything or nothing,” said 
Barbara. “ He could have no errand there, unless 
for a reading of the banns: ‘John Grayhurst, 


250 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


bach’lah; Winifred Blythe, spinstah.’ Oh, no ! the 
poor things cannot have come to such a pass yet. 
Dick, shall we never know how Cicely’s ribbon 
found its way into your pocket? ” 

“ There is no clue,” he said. “ I could swear I 
had but the one, when we went to Brignal that 
morning.” 

It could not be Winifred who found it. She 
knows the gown, and would have recognized the 
ribbon at once. Then she would surely have 
spoken : to put me on my guard, or to reproach 
me perhaps.” 

“I doubt that, Barbara. You must dispose of 
Winifred’s pride, before you can decide upon her 
methods. She is too proud to intrude upon your 
confidence, and too young to pose as your keeper. 
If with these mad pranks of yours, you precipitate 
a scandal or a panic, your folly must be on your 
own head.” 

“Don’t scold, Dick ! Who found the ribbon?” 

“ How should I know?” 

“ A woman, of course.” 

“ Why of course ? ” 

“Because a great blundering man would either 
have burned the rag and held his tongue, or he 
would have restored it to me at the dinner-table 
in a set speech ; while a woman would reflect 
how she herself would feel, to know that another 
woman, somewhere concealed, had captured a 
secret of hers ; and she must contrive to torment 


THE OTHER WOMAN. 


251 


me so, or burst ; not necessarily because she is 
cruel or vindictive, but simply because she is a 
woman.” 

“ Then who is she, in this case ? ” 

“She who was first to hear the story of the 
ghost from the lips of Bessie Mann ; she who 
was especially impressed with the circumstance of 
the missing ribbon ; she who was quick to dis- 
cover that such a bow was gone from its place in 
a gown of mine — Phyllis.” 

“ And why should the girl take pleasure in 
tormenting you, as you say ? ” 

“ Because when she is not an angel, she is a 
lady’s-maid ; and if a man may never be a hero to 
his valet-de-chambre, what a shabby creature a 
woman must seem to the other woman who plays 
on lifer back hair ? ” 

“Granting all that, why should Phyllis attack 
you over my shoulder?” 

“ Perhaps she fancies you are fond of me, Dick. 
Ladies’-maids spin plots, and weave romances.” 

“ You are imaginative, Barbara. The girl was 
not at Brignal.” 

“ But she is at Overstoke, and at The Chequers, 
and in the avenue and the paths; and she might 
at any time be at your elbow, or in your pocket, 
without your knowledge, so grandly unconscious 
are you of her existence. You would hardly be 
aware of her, if she waited with her arms around 
your neck. — Here’s another shirt-button coming 


252 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


off. Dick, that dreadful old Nanny Cole neglects 
you shamefully. Winifred and I must go to the 
Croft, and inspect your things — you lone lorn 
bachelor! This is the third loose button within a 
week ; I’m ashamed of you. Wait in the Library, 
while I get needle and thread.” 

He obeyed, smiling, well pleased with her play- 
ful friendliness, while she called to Phyllis from 
the hall. There were low words of remonstrance 
and entreaty, cut short by Barbara’s insistance, 
not unkind yet peremptory : 

“Nonsense! What of that ? Come at once: 
I am waiting.” 

And the obedient creature came— one great, 
trembling blush ! P'or a moment she hesitated 
at the door, and took in every part of the room 
in a sweeping glance of embarrassment and 
apprehension ; and she seemed relieved at first, 
seeing no one but Barbara. 

“Come in, Phyllis. Have you brought them? 
Let me see the needles ; this one will do, I think. 
Now, Dick! Bring your shabby button.” 

Phyllis murmured “ Oh ! ” and with fear in her 
eyes shrank toward the door; but Barbara with 
a careless touch detained her. 

Then Jekyll advanced, and on the threshold of 
the Library stood astounded, beholding the girl 
transformed. 

“ Do you recognize that dress, Dick ? I wore it 
when the Aldridges were here, you remember. I 


THE OTHER WOMAN. 


253 


have given it to Phyllis, and we were trying it on 
when you came. It suits her nicely : don’t you 
think so ? ” 

“Too long, is it not?” said Jekyll, moving 
toward the window, with the air of one for whom 
the reply could have no interest. 

“Of course: I am so much taller, you know; 
but that is easily corrected. Now, Phyllis, thread 
your needle.”* 

The girl, now supernaturally pale, shivered 
slightly as she endeavored to obey ; but her 
trembling hands refused the task, and she raised 
her lovely eyes to her tormentor in a look so 
piteous, so appealing — 

“ Those needles are difficult ; or is your thread 
too coarse ? ” said Barbara. “ Let me try ; ” and 
in an instant,, without a tremor — “ There ! ” 

“Now, Mr. Jekyll, where’s your button? 
Phyllis, have you scissors? Yes ? — Oh ! Oh ! ” 

“ What is it ? ” inquired Jekyll. 

“ So awkward ! so stupid ! I have pricked my 
finger badly. There ! I thought so — a great 
blotch of blood on your linen. That’s ominous, 
ominous! and I give it up. Finish this, 
Phyllis.” 

Mechanically the girl took the needle ; her face 
was ashy and her lips were set ; and her neck and 
bosom were as heaving marble. 

And Barbara stood, nursing her wounded fin- 
ger with her lips — and watching. 


254 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


Jekyll remarked that the Squire should be 
returning soon. 

Phyllis’s needle bungled wildly. 

And Barbara stood watching. 

Then Phyllis slid softly to the floor, and lay 
there white and still. 

“What’s this?” cried Jekyll, “What the devil 
have you done?” as he kneeled, and tenderly sup- 
ported the beautiful head. 

“She seems to have fainted,” said Barbara, 
with sweet composure. “ Speak to her, while I go 
for water ; — kiss Jier^ Dick ! ” 

And when Miss Lynn was gone, he did kiss 
her ; and her eyes were opened and she knew 
Devil Dick, — with his finger on his lips. 

Then Barbara returned with the water. “The 
girl seems better now,” said Jekyll. “I suppose 
you know what to do for her ; ” and he went out. 

And Barbara smiled ; but when presently Jekyll 
stood at the door unseen, and looked within, he 
saw her seated on the floor in tears, gently caress- 
ing and comforting Phyllis. 


When Grayhurst, leaving the highway, turned 
into the Manse lane, as Jekyll had seen, he walked 
slowly, pondering gravely, again and again stop- 
ping, as if to gather his thoughts together, and 
marshal the forces of his feelings and his judg- 


THE OTHER WOMAN. 


255 


ment ; but there was no feebleness of purpose : 
his face was set toward the Manse. 

Half way, he met a woman coming from the 
vicarage, a cottager of the humbler class, hewer of 
wood and drawer of water ; and under the thread- 
bare shawl and hood, shabby but decent, he 
recognized Jael Tripp, the shoemaker’s wife. The 
good creature was crying; and as she drew near 
she wiped her eyes, in the jerky way of poor peo- 
ple to whom tears are a hindrance, and would 
have passed him with a shy curtsy, hiding her 
trouble ; but he detained her. 

“Good day, Mrs. Tripp! Nothing wrong at 
home, I hope. How is it with Heber, and the 
child?” 

“ The child she be fine and hearty, my duty to 
you, sir. But my poor man — ah ! but he be 
down low, sir, wi’ the fever ; and he wi’ a rare big 
job from Ausibel, and never so much as a lad to 
help.” 

“ I have not heard that he was ill.” 

“ Twere only sin’ last night, sir, that he were 
to say bad. Three days he were that sore, wi’ the 
misety and the shiverin’ ; but so long as he could 
work, the^'e were. the work a-starin’. Ah! sir, 
the likes o’ you can never know what it is to have 
work a-waitin’ and a-starin’ and a-fairly swearin’ 
at ye, and you just daft-like an’ dazed, a-wonderin’ 
what’s this that’s come to yer head an’ yer hands. 
But last night it did grip him strong — the fever, 


256 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


sir; and the man did burn and toss and rave. 
This mornin’, Janet Drum she did run to Yavvdley 
for the doctor ; happen he’s there by now; but 
Heber he did think it were death ; and nothin’ 
would do but I must fetch the Vicar, to read the 
sick prayers, and speak a good word for him to 
the Lord ; for he were a good shoemaker, sir.” 

“And the Vicar is coming?” inquired Gray- 
hurst, for the first time turning to retrace his steps. 

“ Cornin’, is it sir? not he ! He would not see 
me even, but did bid me stand outside the door. 
It were the poor gal that brought the word, and 
she did cry, and beg me to forgive her. It were 
just a nuisance, he says; and did I think he were 
a fool, to pison hisself in a fever hole for every 
scary chaw-bacon in the parish. I were to go 
back, he says, and tell my man ’twere the ’poticary 
he wanted, and not the parson ; and as for the 
prayers, any body that could read would do for 
that, he says.” 

“Go home, Mrs. Tripp. Here, take this!” — 
the woman took the coins in a bewildered, won- 
dering way, and forgot to thank him. “ Send 
Janet to Miss Blythe. Tell Heber I will be 
there soon, to read for him. G9 now ! ” 

And he turned and strode toward the Manse, 
with a stern face. 

The brass knocker was not a light one, and the 
American’s stroke was not meek. The Vicar, in 
his study, sprang to his feet. 


THE OTHER WOMAN. 


257 


Is that idiot here again?” he cried. In 
another moment, stepping into the hall, he saw 
the American standing in the open door ; then he 
retired precipitately, and waited until the house- 
keeper’s daughter brought him a card: — Mr. John 
Grayhurst. He snatched it from her hand impa- 
tiently ; then held it for some moments, as if pe- 
rusing it intently ; then sat musing, with a far- 
away look ; then turned abruptly to the girl, and 
began with “ what? ” — but stopped there. 

“ Put away the decanter, and hand me that 
book. Now, show him in here.” 

“To what circumstance am I indebted for this 
pleasure?” said the Vicar, rising. 

“ Is it a pleasure ? ” 

“A form of words,” said Thorpe lightly. 
“ Possibly you may make it a pleasure.” 

“ Let us see,” said the American. “ Of course I 
am here strictly on business.” 

“On business? I cannot imagine ” 

“ How could you, Mr. Thorpe ? But do invite 
me to be seated ; it is customary, I believe.” 

The Vicar bowed coldly, and with a wave of 
the hand indicated a chair. 

“ Thank you ; you are very kind. Now, sir, 
when do you leave ? ” 

“ Leave? leave ? — what ? where ? ” 

“ This house, this parish, this county, this coun- 
try, this world ! ” 

The Vicar started ; and yet not- without a cer- 


258 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


tain embarrassment, not proper to a man wholly 
taken by surprise. 

“ I am always prepared for eccentricities from 
your countrymen;” he said; “but hardly for 
impertinences that only drink or delirium could 
excuse.” 

“ And yet nothing could be more sober,” said 
the American, “ nothing more sane ; nothing more 
practical and to the point. My countrymen 
reserve their eccentricities and impertinences for 
their social diversion ; in business their practice 
is severely common-place ; and I said I came here 
on business.” 

“ Then come to your business, if you please, 
with less circumlocution.” 

“ That is well put ; for I am consuming your 
time, and your time is valuable. Mr. Thorpe, you 
are surprised to see me here ; and yet for the first 
time you must have derived a degree of pleasure 
from my coming — the pleasure of relief.” 

“ I certainly do associate a sense of relief with 
your visit,” said the Vicar, “but I find it prospec- 
tive ; you apply it at the wrong end.” 

“That is clever,” said the American ; “you will 
make yourself felt in your new and more conge- 
nial vocation.” 

“ Indeed ! And to what sphere have you as- 
signed me?” 

“ Nature designed you for the law. But to 
return to our business: You felt relieved when I 


THE OTHER WOMAN. 


259 


came, because you were expecting the father of 
Phyllis Hindman with a cudgel.” 

“It’s a lie, sir! it’s a lie!” shouted Thorpe, 
springing to his feet. 

“ What is a lie ? ” 

The Vicar had lost his head ; and now he was 
appalled by his own blunder: too late. “What 
is the lie? ” 

“That plausible hussy, for an end of her own, 
has set on foot some infamous invention. I 
swear — ” 

“ Pray spare yourself, Mr. Thorpe. The moral 
floundering of an intellectual man is not an agree- 
able spectacle ; although it is to your credit that 
you are evidently not what your countrymen 
term ‘ a cool hand ; ’ but if you are to lose your 
head so helplessly in every strong situation, I can- 
not promise you an illustrious success in your new 
career. Your ‘infamous invention’ becomes a 
formidable indictment, in the light of your own 
evidence, and you are indebted to the purity and 
the loyalty of that ‘plausible hussy ’ for an impun- 
ity which many a better man has missed. At this 
very moment my ingenuity is taxed to protect 
you ; or rather to avert a scandal with which my 
friends are threatened, even though I incur the 
imputation of conniving at your escape. And 
lest you should ascribe to me the least emotion 
of generosity, I frankly assure you that I should 
derive more satisfaction from your exposure in 


260 


AFTER HIS KIHD. 


the old pillory at Yawdley than I ever did from 
your appearance in the pulpit at Overstoke.” 

With blazing eyes and arm upraised, Thorpe 
advanced, and halted ; but the American neither 
halted nor heeded. 

This is Thursday, Mr. Vicar. If before next 
Sunday you have not disappeared for all time 
from this community, it will not be your privilege 
to choose between the public denunciation of 
Squire Shustoke, the horse-whip of Mr. Jekyll, 
and the horse-pond of Toby Hindman ; for I can 
promise you all three. For all that, I pity you; 
as I would pity any man in a false position, to 
whom self-respect is an impossibility by the very 
conditions of his daily life. You are a victim of 
a system of moral simony, which tradition has 
made dangerous by making it respectable.” 

And without a salutation he departed, leaving 
the Vicar standing there — stunned. 

On Friday, the Reverend Caryl Ethelred Thorpe 
took the coach for Bolingstone. 

There was no service in Overstoke church on 
the following Sunday. 


CHAPTER XXL 


CONFIDENTIAL. — THE ROMANY’S TOKEN. 



HE Sylcaster coach, ready for the home trip, 


1 was at the door of The Chequers ; the stable 
boys waited at the horses’ heads ; the passengers 
were in their places ; that sly old buffer, Malt- 
house of Ausibel, whose head was exceptionally 
soft for a man in the hardware line, winked and 
chuckled slyly as he bestowed his ponderous 
nether man in a back seat, and settled himself 
with sighs of content, to dream of that buxom 
bar-maid. And the coach waited for Sylcaster 
Luke, and Luke, “ reading soft mischief in her 
eye,” waited for Dolly, and Dolly waited for what 
she called “ an end ” to his fooling. Then from 
the tap-room came a crash as of crockery, and 
the hoarse guffaw of a man, mixed with “ well-if- 
evers ” in a high key ; and Luke ran out, wiping 
his mouth with the back of hfs hand, with a grin 
on his face and a posy in his button-hole ; and 
he sprang to the box and seized his “ lines ” and 
shouted cheerily,^ Hey now, my sonnies ! ” — till 
next time. 

And within, the buxom bar-maid, having 


262 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


repaired the ruins of her coiffure^ proceeded to 
gather up the fragments of a broken pitcher that 
strewed the floor, lightening labor with an appro- 
priate ditty : 

“ I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her. 

That such a misfortune should give her such pain. 

A kiss then I gave her ; and before I did lave her. 

She vowed for such pleasure she’d break it again. 

“’Twas hay-making season ; I can’t tell the reason — 
Misfortunes will never come single, 'tis plain ; 

For very soon after poor Kitty’s disa^er, 

The divil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine." 

And ’twixt clumsiness and love, the devil a 
pitcher we’ll have in this house,” said Toby, sur- 
veying from the door the scene of recent conflict 
and havoc. But what’s the odds ? I don’t 
seem to have no respect for pitchers, since I heard 
that them Vylkes was in the pottery line. All the 
same, if pewter tankards would suit you and Luke 
to ’rastle over, you’d obleege me ; and you’d find it 
cheaper in the long run. Leastways, you might 
try gettin’ married ; that would stop it. Talk of 
the tender passion ! I wish crockery were as 
tough.” 

“ ’Tis the awkwardness of the wretch, and so I 
tell him, Mr. Hindman, sir. He goes at a slight 
common kiss as if a weak woman was one of his 
leaders a-kicking. And did you think it was love, 


CONFIDENTIAL— THE ROMANY'S TOKEN. 263 

sir? Well, if ever? Luke Crotty, a’umble ’ostler! 
and me aspirin’ to a genteel ironmonger, at least, 
if not to a noble, majestic innkeeper, p’raps.” 

“ My dear, aren’t you puttin’ of it raither.strong ? 
I should hardly call it noble ; suppose ^Ye say 
superior, or commanding. And majestic ? don’t 
that strike ycu as a leetle lofty, a kind of intrudin’ 
on the Royal Fambly?” 

“Ah ! Mr. Hindman, sir, you don’t know your- 
self ; being a cold widower, with no one to study 
you and paint your picture, so to speak. Why, 
sir, that foolish modest you be, I daresn’t even say 
hahn’som.e, for fear of bringing a blush to your 
manly cheek.” 

“ Dolly, it were the rule of The Chequers in my 
father’s time, and ’tis the rule in my time, never kiss 
your own bar-maid ! — but, I fed there’s exceptions, 
when nobody’s lookin’.” 

“Oh! Mr. Hindman, sir, please — well-if-ev — 
thankee — O ! ” 

“You’re a bonny lass, Dolly, and a bright and 
a sensible; and ’tis a lucky chap that’ll get ye. If 
I was younger I’d make you missus of The 
Chequers, and we’d arsk no odds of gentle or 
simple. But ’tis too late now, my dear ; I could 
never look my poor Mabel in the face, if happen 
she be a-waitin’ for me somewheres. Luke he’s 
the lad for you ; and when I begin to feel old and 
lazy — and that’s not long to wait — he can come 
down from the box and take my place, and you 


264 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


can look after the pitchers and keep a sharp eye 
on the bar-maid, when Luke’s around.” 

“ Ah ! Mr. Hindman, sir, but you’re good — after 
all the things I’ve broke, and me such a temper. 
But I -could never do it, sir ; I haven’t the heart. 
Luke Crotty’s a good fellow; and make his life a 
burden, oh ! I never could. He’d hang himself.” 

“ Why, don’t you care for him, lass ? ” 

‘‘Care for him! I’ve just gone wild on him.” 

“ Then where’s the trouble ? ” 

“Here, sir, — Me! That raving jealous I am. 
And oh ! Mr. Hindman, sir, words can-never express 
how I do hate a bar-maid.” 

“ That’s bad, that’s very bad. I never thought 
I’d live to see it ; but if it’s to be a case of life or 
death, we must have a he-one at The Chequers, a 
good-lookin’ he-one,” 

“ Never ! That’s worse.” 

“ As how? ” 

“Me!” 

Toby turned upon the girl a look of sharp 
inquiry, that slowly softened and settled in an 
expression of intelligent and benevolent assent. 

“ Ah ! I see, I see,” he said. “ Well, a man’s a 
man, I says — good or bad, simple or artful, a 
man’s a man. But a woman ! — She’s just the 
Lord’s good joke. Fill a pipe for me, lass. 
Where’s Mr. Grayhurst?” 

“ GorLe to Brignal, sir ; he knows the way there 
by himself now. And what’s come over him ? 


CONFIDENTIAL. — THE ROMANY S TOKEN. 265 

sitting around owling, and making big eyes at 
nothing. There’s a woman on his mind, I fancy, 
and her name’s Lady Goodluck.” 

“ Who says that ? ” 

“ Christie Breme ; and she’s sure to be right, 
she’s so ugly. Trust them ill-favored women for 
sharp eyes and sound sense. There’s nothing in 
their looking-glasses to interest ’em ; so they can 
give their minds to other folks’ chances. A 
beauty, like Lady Goodluck, can no more keep a 
lover hid from a faithful fright, like Christie 
Breme, than she can keep him from slipping into 
her dreams by bolting her door at night.” 

“ And what does Christie say ? ” 

“ She says Mr. Grayhurst do just worship the 
ground where Miss Winifred’s foot has trod. 
There it goes again ; them frights do always run 
to poetry, poor things.” 

“ H’m ! I guess not,” said Toby. “ I warrant the 
ground Mr. Grayhurst has been a-goin’ down on 
his knees to is the kind that ‘ pans out rich,’ as he 
calls it. There’s more sweat than gold in our old- 
fashioned Midland clods ; and the oats and carrots 
don’t pan out so rich that a man should have any 
call to make a heathen pagan of hisself.” 

“Ah! Mr. Hindman, sir, that superior you are 
now, your mind it scorns to stoop to the figures 
o’ speech. But when you were frisky and went 
courtin’, sir, I warrant your mouth were full of 
the language of love.” 


366 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


^‘Now, Dolly, there’s where ye’re wild. When 
I went sweetheartin’ my figgers of speech was in 
the bank at Ausibel ; and the only langwige o’ 
love I knew was a hearty hug for my lass, and a 
hard fist for the chap that miscalled her. But 
’tis a comfort to think that Mr. Grayhurst’s lang- 
wige o’ love is honest English. He might ’a’ been 
a Portigee or a Frenchman — Lord deliver us ! ” 

“ Do you think he’ll take her away to America, 
sir ? ” 

“ Would he take the sunshine out o’ the 
gardens, and the smoke out o’ tlie chimblies, and 
the songs out o’ the children’s mouths, and the 
comfort out o’ the old dames’ joints ? What would ’ 
Yawdley be, or Overstoke, without Lady Good- 
luck? — Sunday without bells, Christmas without 
holly.” 

Or The Chequers without Phyllis.” 

“ Ay, my dear ! that were so once ; but it be 
different now. What’s come to my Mabel’s lass, 

I wonder; what’s gone with her laugh, and her 
tricks, and her songs, and the pretty coaxin’ ways 
o’ her? A year or two agone, and The Chequers 
were full o’ Phyllis ; not loud, you know, but 
winsome and cheery, and sociable as a wren. Now* 
there’s trouble in her very smile, and her sweet- 
ness is all patience. If ’twere any house but 
Overstoke, and any master but Squire Randal, and 
any lady but her own old playmate. I’d fancy 
’twere the service that hung heavy on her.” 


CONFIDENTIAL.— T//£ FOMA NY’S TOKEN. 267 

“ Now that’s just the difference between a man 
and a woman. Here’s a man with a superior 
mind, and ’tis no use to him. You might as well 
be deef and blind, sir ; you might as well be a 
clod, like Malachi Drum, or a natural, like Bucky 
Boots. Only lend me the leavings of your talents 
and powers, and I’ll pick up more in a month than 
you’ll go stumbling over in a year. Now here’s 
a strapping country lass ; she’s healthy ; she’s 
pretty enough to be hateful, if she was not so tire- 
some sweet ; and she has wit enough to have her 
own way ; she’s got a heavenly home, and a beau- 
tiful father to fool, and friends that are ready to 
fight for her — the very women forgive her for 
being a beauty ; and yet this girl mopes and pules, 
and slinks away in poky corners, with trouble in 
her smile, as you say, and no temper to speak of. 
Now, what’s the matter with her ? ” 

“ Sometimes I misdoubt if she ever quite got 
over the measles.” 

“ Well — if ever! That I should live to hear it 
called measles.' Why didn’t you say mumps. 
Well, did ever? Oh 1 you babe and suckling!” 

“ Now there you are, Dolly, gone wild again. 
What be you a-drivin’ at now ? ” 

“ Love ! Love, I tell you, sir ; and you couldn’t 
see it, that blind you are, if ’twere broad as the 
church and high as the steeple ; and you couldn’t 
hear it, that deef you are, if archangels were to 
blow you up with clarions.” 


268 


AFTER HIS KIND, 


“Hoot, lass! What stuff is this? Where’s 
your man ? ” 

“ And you think there’s no man. Did you ever 
see a toper that couldn’t find his go o’ gin, if you 
was to set him down in the great desert of Sarah? 
and did you ever see a love-sick maid that couldn’t 
find a man on a desert island ? ” 

“ Then who is he ? ” 

“ Don’t ask me, Mr. Hindman, sir. ’Tis not for 
a bar-maid to meddle with a lady’s-maid’s con- 
cerns. Only the next time Phyllis is at The 
Chequers, and there’s any good-looking mischief 
around, just you fetch out your superior mind, 
and wind it up, and set it a-going ! ” 

Just then Bucky Boots came to the door^ and 
imparted to the intellectual situation a new ele- 
ment of interest, by the unusual perturbation of his 
countenance, habitually stolid save for the eccen- 
tric agitation of the ears. 

“ What is it, Bucky ? ” 

The lout stood shuffling, first on one foot then 
on the other, one hand behind him, excitement 
expressed in the wabbling of his ears. 

“ Him, maister ! That gipsy devil, ’twere him 1 ” 
and he indicated the whereabouts of his enemy 
with a backward jerk of his thumb ; for Bucky’s 
aversion to the bailiff was extreme, and the epi- 
thets he was accustomed to apply to him were not 
complimentary. 

Kit Abershaw ? Where is he ? ” 


CONFIDENTIAL.— THE ROMANY'S TOKEN. 269 

“In the stable, maister; ’twcre him.” 

“ As how ? What's wrong wi’ the bailiff ? ” 

“ Devil Dick’s saddle, he did cunjur it.” 

“ Dolly, what do the poor chap mean ? ” inquired 
Toby, always slow to interpret the jerky revela- 
tions of this smutty caricature of Sir Hector 
Vylke. 

As he turned to the bar-maid for help, that 
canny damsel, keenly eyeing Boots, was aware of a 
wink, and an energetic signal delivered with both 
ears. 

“ ’Tis but his gibberish, sir,” she said, speaking 
low. “ Something about Abershaw meddling 
with Mr. Jekyll’s saddle. You might see for your- 
self, sir, if the man’s in the stable.” 

Hindman took the hint, and went, 

“ Now, Bucky ! speak quick. What did the 
bailiff do ? ” 

“Maister Jekyll’s saddle, he did cunjur it, the 
gipsy devil ! ” 

“ Conjure it ? How? Show me.” 

All this time Bucky had held one hand behind 
him. Now, with cunning deliberation, as if to 
make the most of his importance, he brought it 
in front, and showed a bit of red rag. 

With strange consternation Dolly snatched it 
from him, and spread it open on her palm. “ Oh ! 
oh ! ” she cried ; and with a ghastly face, and eyes 
fixed in horror upon the thing, she staggered back- 
ward and fell into a chair. 


270 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


Hush, Bucky ! be still ! ” — for the frightened 
lad would have fled from the room. 

“ Where did you find this ? ” 

“ In Devil Dick’s saddle ’twere ; 'twixt the pad 
and the flap ; the gipsy he did put it there.” 

“ Did you see him do it ? ” 

“ Ay ! did I. What be eyes for? ” 

“ Did he know you saw him ? ” 

“ Not him. I were. asleep. He, he ! ” 

“ What did he do ? Tell me, Bucky.” 

“ He did come sneakin’, spyin’ ; but Bucky 
Vylke were snorin’ — So. He, he ! Then he did 
fetch that from his pocket. Then he did fetch a 
knife from his sleeve. Then he "did hold that up 
agin the door. Then he did punch it wi’ his long 
knife. Then he did go to Devil Dick’s saddle, 
and fix it in the buckle o’ the stirrup-strap, under 
the flap. And Bucky Vylke he were snorin’ — So. 
He, he ! Then that gipsy devil he did sneak 
away. Then I did come here : — that’s all.” 

“You are a good lad, Bucky; you are a bright 
lad ; and you shall be my sweetheart. You must 
give this to me, and you must tell nobody, nobody. 
Now run to the stable.” 

And Bucky went, flattered and elated, leaving 
in Dolly’s hands a bit of red flannel, cut in the 
shape of a heart, with a slit in the middle of it. 


In the afternoon, when the breeze languished, 
and the air was still sultry and somnolent, though 


CONFIDENTIAL.— THE ROMANY'S TOKEN, 271 

the nights were cool — in the drowsy afternoon, 
when all the house was hushed, and the cat and 
the coach-dog napped, and Toby Hindman, with 
no companion but his pipe, snored in his big 
chair in the tap-room — John Grayhurst sat in the 
porch at The Chequers, “ owling and making big 
eyes,” his chair tilted backward and his feet on 
the rail, more Americano. 

T© him came Dolly, softly moving, demurely 
inviting attention. 

“ Do I disturb you, Mr. Grayhurst ? ” 

“Ah, Dolly! is that you? Oh, no; come talk 
to me. How still it is! Is all England asleep? 
What o’clock is it? ” 

“ On the stroke of three, sir. ’Tis a dull place 
for you, Mr. Grayhurst, sir, who have seen the 
world by sea and land, and slept through all the 
racket of it. I wonder that the very crickets don’t 
keep you awake o’ nights. Once, when I had been 
in London a month, and came back to a roadside 
inn, I justtosseid and fretted and cried all night. 
I missed the roar of the ’busses ; and I did long to 
jump out o’ bed and smash the hall-clock, the com 
ceited tick of it was that maddening.” 

“Did you come here from London, Dolly? I 
guessed you were not Midland born.” 

“ Not I, sir — I’m Norfolk ; and I came from 
there to Bolingstone, when my mother died. I 
have an uncle at Bolingstone, and that’s how we 
heard of this place at The Chequers, when the 


272 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


bar-maid was married and went to Sylcaster to 
live. Then Will Hamper, of the Bolingstone 
coach, did speak a good word for me to Mr. 
Hindman, and he sent for me. 

“ And ’twas thinking of the old home in Nor- 
folk to-day, Mr. Grayhurst, that put it into my 
head to tell you a little story, if you would not 
mind my taking the liberty.” 

Grayhurst replied with a smile, and set a chair 
for her. Something in the girl’s manner impressed 
him ; he had rarely beheld her so quiet and so 
grave. 

“ Our place in Norfolk was a handy camping- 
ground for gipsies, sir; and we had them, more or 
less, all the year round. Since I was a little 
thing, I can remember their tents, and their kettles, 
and the straw hoods and red handkerchiefs and 
gold beads of the women, with their brown babies 
at their backs. The men were tinkers and ped- 
dlers and horse-trainers; and the women made 
baskets, and sold roots for medicine, and told for- 
tunes. We lived on fair terms with them, and had 
but little trouble. Of course they would steal, in 
a small way ; but we had learned to wink at that. 
They were just born gipsies, you see, sir; and 
nature is stronger than law and bluster. Besides, 
what’s a fowl, or even a sheep now and then, to a 
burned rick, or a choked well, or a ham-strung 
horse ? So we kept terms with the Romany peo- 
ple ; and since there was no getting rid of them. 


CONFIDENTIAL.— THE ROMANY'S TOKEN. 273 

we made the best of a bad bargain, and paid the 
fowl to save the rick. 

“All but one man — Joe Bolter, the Norwich 
carrier. No gipsy for him ! Hard words and hard 
knocks was the best fare he had for them ; and 
they were welcome to that, and plenty of it. The 
gipsies had their champion wrestlers and boxers, 
and at every fair they were ready to make a match 
for a small purse ; but not a man in the county 
could stand up before Joe Bolter. He was a ter- 
ror with his fists and his grip ; and his chief 
delight in life was to call out the gipsy cham- 
pions, one after another, and pound the breath 
out of them, or break their necks or their ribs, 
tossing them over his head. The mere sight of 
the carrier was enough to poison a Romany’s 
food and drink. 

“ Joe was a hard man, but he was fond of his 
dog — a horrid brute of a bull-dog, with one eye ; 
and the dog loved the man to the death. Either 
would fight or starve for the other. Grip always 
went the rounds of the cart ; and wherever the 
beast was, the man was not far off. One night 
that dog was poisoned ; and Joe was like a wild 
beast. He swore a gipsy had done it, and he 
went raving through their camp. The men fled 
right and left ; all but one, a sullen young fellow, 
who stood his ground. Joe cudgeled him sense- 
less, and the man was hurt for life. 

“ Three months went by ; summer had come. 


274 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


and the nights were hot. In the carrier’s house it 
was close and sweltering ; but under the trees, 
where the cart stood, the breeze was sweet. One 
night, Joe tossed some blankets into the cart, and 
slept there. Next morning he was found cold in his 
own blood, stabbed to the heart. 

“ But here was the strange part of it, sir. The 
carrier had left his jacket hanging on a peg in the 
house ; and when they were making ready to bury 
him, somebody, looking in the pockets for the 
tickets for his parcels and calls — you know, sir, — 
found a scrap of red flannel in the shape of a 
heart, with a knife-stroke in the middle of it. 

“ When the neighbors saw that, they cried ‘ the 
Romany token! the Romany , token !’ and they 
knew that Joe Bolter had died by a gipsy’s knife. 
That ugly rag was passed from hand to hand ; 
even the children shuddered at it, and dreamed 
about it. ’Twas cruel to show it to little creat- 
ures like me, sir ; from that day to this, I can 
never see a bit of such red stuff but my heart 
stands still, and I think of that dreadful time.” 

And then she drew from her pocket the thing 
itself, and laid it on Grayhurst’s knee. 

“So, this is the Romany token,” he said, as he 
turned it about in his hand ; “ and you made this, 
Dolly, to show me what it was like ? ” 

“ No, Mr. Grayhurst, sir. Kit Abershaw fastened 
that under the flap of Mr. Jekyll’s saddle to-day ; 
and Kit Abershaw is a gipsy.” 


CONFIDENTIAL. — THE FOMANTS TOKEN. 275 

“ For God’s sake, girl ! What are you saying ?” 

She told him the story, word for word, with 
Bucky’s strong simplicity ; and at the end broke 
down in sobs and tremors. 

“Oh, make haste, Mr. Grayhurst, sir! and tell 
Mr. Jekyll ; and make him arm himself ; and you 
too, sir, you too. Oh, make haste ! ” 

“Yes, yes, Dolly ! but be calm now, or you will 
be heard ; and this is dark business. But the man 
must be mad ; this rag would hang him — don’t 
you see? ” 

“Ay, sir! he knows that well enough ; but he 
will not wait to be hung.” 

The American caught her meaning. “You 
think him so desperate as that? ” 

“ Mr. Grayhurst, by myself I have been reading 
the black thoughts of Kit Abershaw all summer, 
and I know them by heart. O sir! find Mr. 
Jekyll quickly, and put him on his guard. Please! 
please ! ” 

“ Call for my horse, Dolly ; and do not tremble 
so. The gipsy shall have two of us to deal with.” 

But that same afternoon, Devil Dick had ridden 
to Sylcaster, taking the shorter way by the New 
Inn road ; and Grayhurst did not find him until 
the day after the morrow. Thus they were sepa- 
rated by the two days most memorable in the 
lives of both. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


MILDRED’S CHILD. — AT LAST ! 

WEET day ! “ so cool, so calm, so bright ! the 



O bridal of the earth and sky a sabbath still- 
ness, and a veiled reflection of the peace of God, 
hung upon the house at Overstoke. The Squire 
lay back in his great arm-chair, and surrendered 
his soul to the spell of memories that were very 
tender, and a melancholy that was very sweet ; 
while Barbara sat on a stool at his feet and pil- 
lowed her cheek on his knee, fondly caressing the 
gentle hand, where a father’s pride and a mother’s 
love were joined to do her service. Ah ! strange, 
capricious, wayward sprite ! forever at cross pur- 
poses with herself, confronting her own heart with 
contradictions, what shall we call her now f Not 
Barbara: the name that stands for passionate 
words and rebellious ways impossible to this pen- 
sive, docile, dreamy child, clinging to an old man’s 
knee, and with soft fondling lips communing with 
an old man’s fingers. Not Barbara; for as the 
Squire stoops, and with brimming eyes lays a tear 
and a kiss together upon the pretty hair, he mur- 


MILDRED'S CHILD.— A T LAST. 


277 


murs “ Mildred ; and Golf, watching them from 
his place on the rug — remembering, discerning, 
divining, with the gift of a dog’s devotion — drags 
his out-worn limbs, feebly, a little nearer, and licks 
the passive hand of “ Mildred.” 

No ! not Barbara ; for the Barbara of Winifred 
and Dick was a stranger to the Squire ; she had 
never revealed herself to him. She had “ ap- 
peared ” to Winifred, from time to time, as Cicely 
had appeared to Bessie Mann ; she had intercepted 
Jekyll in the fields and lanes, and lightly challenged 
him to peer into the heart of her mystery ; she 
had defied the Vicar with many gibes, and put 
him down with the trick of a spiteful truth ; she 
had jangled for pastime among the very heart- 
strings of Phyllis, and then soothed and tuned 
them with an overcoming kiss ; she had flashed 
upon the American in unexpected places, between 
a sob and a reckless jest, a bitter fling and a song ; 
but she never jarred upon the Squire’s “ mood 
serene,” nor marred the gracious influence of the 
hour when he was wont to entertain benignant 
guests, when Memory came to him with ghostly 
consolations, and Hope intent on fair, alluring 
promises. At such times, “Barbara” remained 
without, and sent in “Mildred’s child,” to greet 
and gladden him with Mildred’s eyes, to sing old 
songs to him in Mildred’s voice, and with Mildred’s 
simple prattle to entertain him with the travels 
of a cottager or the adventures of a cow. And 


278 AFTER HIS Id HD. 

SO Squire Randal never knew that “ other ” Bar- 
bara, for whom Winifred was troubled, nor the 
English girl “ that hath a devil,” whom Jekyll had 
discovered ; and so it was, that as she so sweetly- 
rested there, with her head upon his knee, he 
broke the spell of her reverie with a question that 
only he could have addressed to her without irony 
or artifice. 

“ How still you are, my child! Do you miss 
Caryl so ? ” 

The girl faintly shivered, but did not change her 
position of repose. 

“A little, dear,” she said. 

‘^His going surprised me,” said the Squire. 
“ He must have been called away suddenly and 
urgently. Of course he will return soon.” 

“ Perhaps. Why did he go?-” 

“ I know no more than was disclosed in the 
hurried note he addressed to me from Bolingstone: 
a family matter of some importance ; in South- 
ampton, I believe. No doubt you will get a 
letter to-day, if he does not appear in person.” 

“ Perhaps ; but he may not come — immediately, 
I mean ; and the people must not be left without 
their service again. . ’Tis many a day, I fancy, 
since the bells of Overstoke were silent so. ’Twas 
very sad ; the poor folk seemed quite lost, shak- 
ing their heads and whispering, as if they felt an 
ill omen in the air. It must not be so again, 
dear; they must have their bells next Sunday. 


MILDRED'S CHILD.-A T LAST. 279 

Promise me that the rector of All-Souls shall 
come over from Ausibel — that sweet old man ! ” 

“ I will write to him to-day, child ; and Dick 
shall take my note, and bring his answer. But 
’twill not be necessary after all, I am sure ; we 
shall have Thorpe here. Indeed, I never thought 
you would miss him so.’’ 

Barbara sat up, and gazed straight into the 
Squire’s eyes — a look that he could never have 
forgotten, if only he could have understood. 
Then, with a sad smile and a sigh, she resumed 
her childish posture, with her arm around his 
knee. 

“ Yes,” she said, “ they must have their service 
and their bells next Sunday; and Winifred must 
bring the flowers for the chancel, and marshal all 
her children. You will surely write to Mr. Pente- 
cost to-day, uncle ? ” 

“ Surely, Barbara ; and Dick shall take the let- 
ter.” 

“ But Dick is not here. Hindman says he rode 
to Sylcaster yesterday; so Phyllis reports.” 

“Indeed! but he must return immediately. 
He can have nothing at Sylcaster to detain him.” 

“ I hope not ! ” said Barbara, raising her head. 
“ Oh ! I hope not.” 

“I do not understand. You hope he will not 
return ? ” 

“Not to-day. Why should he? 'Tis so dull 
for him here, poor fellow ! Even a change to 


28 o 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


rusty old Sylcaster must be a relief for him. — 
Dear, why is Kit here to-day ? ” 

“ Abershaw ? he is not here. He may be at the 
lodge or the stables now ; but I sent him to 
Wynhold this morning, and he can not have been 
about the house. Why do you ask ? ” 

“ Did I not see or hear him ? Or was it one of 
t^he stable men? He may know of Dick, whether 
he has returned or not. Please inquire, dear.” 

And as the Squire rose, and left the room, 
thinking only to humor her, she was so strange 
and so sweet to-day, Barbara grasped her shoulder, 
with a motion and expression of pain, and with 
fear and foreboding in her eyes. 

“ All the morning ! ” she whispered. “ I awoke 
crying with it. And Kit has not been here. What 
can it mean? Oh, Dick, Dick ! ” 

And she buried her face in the cushion of the 

great chair, and lay there still : “ Oh, Dick, 

Dick ! ” she murmured. 

Presently the voice of the Squire, returning, was 
heard at the door ; he was not alone, and in a mo- 
ment Barbara, composed and self-contained, was 
exchanging friendly discourse with Golf. 

“Abershaw has not returned, dear, and nothing 
has been heard of Jekyll. But here is Lady 
Goodluck, come to brighten us ; for I have been 
telling her how dismal we were getting here, with- 
out Thorpe, or Dick, or Grayhurst, or Winifred.” 
“ But now that we have Winifred,” said Bar- 


MILDRED'S CHILD,— AT LAST, 


281 


bara, away with melancholy ! Let us engage 
in some exciting sport, dear — such as reviewing 
the family portraits, with genealogical applica- 
tions ; perhaps we may discover something start- 
ling in the line of heredity, to impart a fresh rap- 
ture to Mr. Grayhurst : something in the turn of 
Cicely Shustoke’s nose, to account for the frivolity 
of Barbara Lynn ; something in the lines of the 
gentle Hugo’s brow, to explain the attractive do- 
cility of Richard Jekyll. Or we might have in 
Keyes, to relate romances of the Shustoke plate ; 
or Mrs. Pennyweight, to entertain us with the 
calamities of the claw-and-ball furniture ; or we 
could make a light excursion to the churchyard, 
and gayly revel in the parish register.” 

So suddenly had Mildred’s child disappeared ; 
and here was the other Barbara, moved by her 
imp of the perverse to express her secret trouble in 
terms of rebellious mockery. The danger signal was 
not lost upon Winifred, whose advent, albeit with 
an influence wholly benignant, had evoked the 
hostile spirits ; and she would have exorcised them 
with a spell of playfulness; But first,” she said, 
“ come and see my Brahma chicks ; and I can 
show you a pig with a keen sense of humor. 
Christie says ‘it be just a-wastin’ o’ yerself to 
reason with that pig ; the beast be such a light- 
minded trifler.’ She has taught him some uncom- 
ical tricks. If you ask him which pig got tipsy, he 
sits up on his tail, and chuckles and winks.” 


282 


AFTER ms KIND. 


The Squire, laughing, bestowed a grateful glance 
on Lady Goodluck ; Barbara smiled, and, moved 
with friendliness, took Winifred’s waist in the turn 
of her arm — as is the way of young women, espec- 
ially of such as are intimate enemies ; but she was 
not to be caught in any amiable toils, nor diverted 
from the purpose that lay nearest her heart. 

That pig,” she said, “comes by his gift by 
metempsychosis. Come up into the gallery, and 
I’ll show you the chuckle and wink of your tipsy 
trifler in a little crayon portrait of old Boultbee of 
Wynhold, poor Cicely’s bugbear.” 

The Squire, unobserved by his niece, signaled 
to Winifred to humor Barbara. 

“A wicked libel!” said Lady Goodluck, “ to 
wrong the shoat unborn. Show me your horrid 
Boultbee, and I’ll show you my engaging pig.” 

And they passed into the hall, and took the 
stairs to the gallery ; but when they reached the 
upper landing, Barbara took Winifred’s hand and 
led her straight to her own chamber. She seemed 
to explore the place with a glance, and, going to 
the dressing-room, looked in. Phyllis was not 
there. Then she returned to Winifred, and led her 
to a seat, and embraced her fondly. 

“ Winifred,” she said, “ do you love me ? ” 

“ Surely, dear ! I have always loved you, ever 
since the day when those good people from 
Bolingstone brought to us the shy little maid who 
was looking for her English uncle.” 


MILDRED'S CHILD.— AT LAST, 


283 


Yes, I remember the child,” said Barbara. 
Have we not been playmates, schoolmates, 
comrades, from that hour to this? Why should I 
not love you?” 

“ Then tell me all your secrets.” 

Winifred smiled: “ Where shall I begin? ” 
Begin with those eager eyes, which mean 
Grayhurst ; and end with that happy blush, which 
means Grayhurst. Tell as many pretty lies as you 
like, dear ; only tell them I 
“ I never sat among 

The choir of Wisdom’s song. 

But pretty lies loved I 
As much as any King.” 

■“’Tisapity I cannot amuse you, dear,” said 
Winifred, caressing her ; ‘‘ but I have no lies to 
tell.” 

“ Then ’tis all true.” 

“ What?” 

Grayhurst.” 

“ Is that ain ” 

What is there more for you ? ” 

My Barbara ! And are you glad ? ” 

'‘With all my heart, with all my heart! But 
oh, Winifred !‘ will he take you away ? ” 

“ I think not, dear ; I hope not. I could not 
be happy, far from Brignal.” 

“Then he will not. Oh! you think I do not 
know him. Winifred, do you love me ? ” 

“ Barbara ! ” 


28^ 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


“Yes, yes! Then promise me, very solemnly, 
holding me in your arms here, that you will never 
leave the Squire, that you will never leave Dick. 
He always loved you^ Winifred. Oh, promise 
me 1 ” 

“What is this, Barbara? You are ill. Try to 
be calm, dear, and tell me what has distressed you 
so.” 

“Nothing, nothing. What should distress me, 
except the thought of losing you ? What would 
our dear Squire do without you ? And what 
would become of Dick? Promise me, Winifred.” 

“Yes, dear; it shall be as you wish. I will 
never leave Overstoke, so long as Squire Randal 
and Dick remain here.” 


“ How lightly falls the foot of Time, that only 
treads on flowers ! ” and Grayhurst had staid late 
with his love that evening. It was hard upon the 
stroke of midnight when he left her in the porch, 
and took his homeward way by the Giddyburn 
path. The infolding stillness of the Hurst W'as 
broken only by the dropping of acorns, the plaint 
of an enamored wood-owl, or the faint bleating of 
some orphaned lamb, forlorn in a field beyond : 
fitting accompaniment to that low song of silence 
which the formless intelligences of the air delight 
to sing, when man with all his coarse distractions 


MILDRED' S CHILD, —AT LAST. 285 

has retired, and left the season and the scene to 
them. 

For fear of alarming her, he had forborne from 
relating to Winifred the incident of the Romany 
token, and Dolly’s grave interpretation of its im- 
port; but now his mind took up the thread of its 
interrupted discourse, and began again to unwind 
the argument in which the relations of Jekyll and 
the bailiff were entangled. He had ridden to 
Wynhold in the morning, and learned from Nanny 
Cole that Dick’s return was not to be looked for 
until the afternoon of the morrow ; and only a 
certain natural reluctance to attach undue import- 
ance to a circumstance more or less fanciful, de- 
terred him from following his friend to Sylcaster. 
He imagined Jekyll’s careless laugh, lightly flout- 
ing the absurdity of connecting a tragic purpose 
with the simple rustic at the lodge — that nonde- 
script “whom no one likes but me; that dull 
fellow, who never makes a mistake ; that slow 
fellow, who is always on hand.” 

And then Grayhurst remembered that he had 
once come upon Abershaw unawares, when that 
slow, simple soul was illustrating his own idea of 
being “ on hand,” with hate in his eyes and a 
bludgeon in his fist. 

“That sound I do sleep,” he had explained on 
that occasion, “ I were just muddled like, Mr. 
Grayhurst, sir.” 

“At this very moment,” thought the American, 


286 


AFTER ms KIND. 


“ he is doubtless enjoying the sleep of the just. 
As that is always an edifying performance, I 
think I will take a look at him ; " and turning his 
back on The Chequers, he took the hedge-path 
toward the lodge. 

As he went, he thought of Dolly’s warning, her 
agitation, her urgent entreaty that he should arm 
himself ; his revolver was in his pocket —he wished 
it at the bottom of the sea; the stout stick 
should suffice for any emergency, and he was 
even ashamed of that. “ That I should come 
among these lowing herds and plodding plough- 
men, to play the hoodlum ! ” 

In going to-and-fro at night with Jekyll, 
between .The Chequers and the Croft, he had 
observed that Abershaw always slept with his 
window open. To-night it was closed. Dolly 
had said that Kit had been seen going to Wyn- 
hold, on an errand for the Squire ; perhaps he had 
not returned. He stood by the window, and 
listened intently; then at the door — no sound. 
He invented some plausible pretext for arousing 
the bailiff : — 

“Abershaw!” and he knocked — no answer; 
besides, the house proclaimed the absence of its 
tenant by its own supernatural stillness : a 
deserted dwelling and a dead body, we always 
know them so. He entered, and struck a match. 
Kit’s bunk had not been occupied ; a jacket and 
a dog-whip lay on the floor, as if the bailiff had 


MILDRED'S CHILD.— A T LAST. 287 

left the house in haste. Then the match went 
out ; he struck another, took up the jacket, felt in 
one of the pockets, and found a scrap of paper, 
on which were a few words, clumsy and sprawl- 
ing — Tvvyse in th’ Avernoo,— Thre Tims 
BY th’ MEER. — WUNCE IN BrIGNEL LaIN. — 
WuNCE IN Hurst a-Cryen.— Seven it Be, and 
WUN Tu Menny. 

Grayhurst thrust the paper into his own pocket, 
threw the jacket on the floor, and went out. At 
the gate he hesitated — should he return to the 
inn? Why not? With Jekyll at Sylcaster and 
Abershaw at Wynhold, evidently there was 
nothing to be learned here ; and the thing to do 
now was to go home, and to bed. Ye,t even as 
he reasoned thus, he had turned into the avenue, 
and was advancing in the direction of Overstoke 
House — led by an influence stronger than his 
logic. 

No moon that night ; but the sky was cloudless 
and limpid, no mists hung in the air, and stars 
strove with stars in vivid and surpassing splendor. 
But in the avenue, leaf-canopied and curtained, 
all was dark ; between the trees and the carriage- 
way Grayhurst followed the narrow strip of 
grass, feeling for the trail with his foot. When 
he reached the thicket, where he had found Aber- 
shaw lurking on the day when he rode with Bar- 
bara, and the bailiff’s presence was revealed to 
her so strangely, he suddenly stopped, arrested by 


288 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


a sound, as of some object moving through the 
brush, a few rods in advance; but no sooner 
caught than lost, and all unreal perhaps. Beyond 
the thicket, his eyes, oppressed by the thick 
shadows of the avenue, were relieved by a fringe 
of light, reflected from the mere upon an open 
space ; and here again he paused, imagining that 
now he saw what, but • a moment since, he had 
fancied he heard — some one, some thing, moving in 
the direction of the hou^e. But this was the 
witching hour, and his wits were free to play him 
fantastic tricks. 

Emerging from the gloom of the avenue, at 
last he came into the cpmfortable light of stars, 
which while it left details veiled or confused, 
denoted objects by masses, and defined outlines 
that might be recognized : such a light as may 
disclose to you the familiar form of your friend, 
while it hides the scowl of your foe, and the bale- 
ful flash of his eyes. 

So far he had come without a purpose; but 
now the spell of mystery was upon him, the sense 
of a hostile influence lurking near ; and it was in 
his temper to watch, to challenge, to arrest, he 
knew not what. He must not linger in the light, 
and right before him was effectual hiding: a 
group of small offices, detached and surrounded 
by tall screens of shrubbery, affording concealed 
approach even to the wall and windows of the 
house. Under cover of these, he made his way 


MILDRED' S CHILD. —AT LAST. 289 

to the last and least of them, a little building of 
brick, used for the storing of kitchen furniture. 
This was separated from the angle of the great 
house only by a grassy knoll, surmounted by a 
close clump of firs, which nearly' filled the space 
between, leaving narrow passage for a convenient 
path from the front to the rear of the house. 
Here, under the wall of the little office, the 
American halted, and waited in the dark, — even 
wondering at himself, but waiting. The spot was 
well chosen for observation or ambush : the 
stable-path, by which he had followed Jekyll to 
Barbara’s window on that memorable night, was 
almost at his feet ; and just beyond it, and oppo- 
site the angle of the house, was a great oak, 
ancestral and majestic ; as the night breeze shook 
its branches, he could hear the measured patter 
of the acorns in the grass. And now he remem- 
bered that in this corner of the house, over 
against the great tree, was the room allotted to 
Phyllis, where she slept, and to which she retired 
when Miss Lynn did not require her services or 
her company. Directly below her window was a 
side door, opening upon the servants’ stair, and 
only used by Mrs. Pennyweight and the maids. 

“Some one coming!” — Grayhurst shrank into 
the shadow, and held his breath. Steps, light and 
quick, approached from the front of the house. 
A form brushed briskly through the firs, stirring 
them sharply, and appeared in the brighter space 


290 


AFTER ms KIND. 


beyond. The American, astonished, hardly re- 
frained from uttering the name aloud : 

“ Jekyll ! ” 

On the edge of the grass, in front of the great 
oak, he stopped, and looked up at the girl’s win- 
dow ; while one might count twenty he waited so. 
Then he turned, and retired under the great tree. 
With eyes strained to pierce the shadows, Gray- 
hurst saw that he stooped, and seemed to pick up 
something, one by one: — 

“ Acorns ! ” 

Then he came into the light again, and stood 
where he had been before. There was an 
upraised arm, the jerk of an upward toss, with 
the little jump that is apt to accompany the action, 
and a patter as of nuts upon glass : — 

“ The window ! ” 

Grayhurst ground his teeth, and gripped his 
stick. 

A minute more, and the window was raised. 
“Hist!’' and an urgent gesture from below 
invited some one to come down. Evidently there 
was a signal of consent, for Jekyll crossed the 
stable-path, and took his stand in the shadow of 
the house, very near the door, and with his back 
to the firs: Grayhurst could have reached him 
with his stick, and the stick trembled in his hand. 

The door opened — “ Phyllis I ” 

“ My love 1 ” she whispered. “ Where are you ? 
Why are you here ? ” 


MILDRED'S CHILD.— AT LAST. 


29T 


His back was to the bush ; his arms were open 
to receive her ; she was clasped in his embrace. — 

“ Great God ! ** What is this that bursts from 
the firs? a furious arm upraised, the flash of a 
blade in the dark, a downright deadly thrust, 
and the knife in the air again ! 

But the blade dropped harmless in the grass ; 
and the American, throwing his stick away, stood 
astride the senseless form of the gipsy, while he sup- 
ported the swooning gentleman in his arms. Then 
the head fell back upon his shoulder, and there 
was a piteous murmur and a flutter, as he laid his 
inert burden in the grass. And Phyllis knelt 
there, dumb, her hands clasped, and her eyes glow- 
ing in the dark. 

Then Grayhurst moved to open the coat, that 
was buttoned closely over his poor friend’s breast ; 
but at the first touch and groping of his hands he 
uttered a mufifled exclamation, and snatching a 
match from his pocket, tried it, broke it, threw it 
away, and another and another — till at last a ghastly 
light fell on the face of Phyllis, and on the gasping 
victim in the grass, and on a hat that had fallen, 
and on ?iwigo{ light brown curls that lay beside it, 
and on the pale face of Barbara ! 

Then the eyes of Grayhurst and Phyllis met ; 
and Phyllis, still kneeling there, covered her face 
with her hands ; but neither spoke. And 
strangely it flashed through Grayhurst’s mind that 
here were two women, and no screaming. 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


292 

“ Phyllis ! ” 

She did not speak nor move. 

“ Phyllis, I say! I want your help.” 

She was on her feet instantly. 

“ To the stables, quick ! Call up the men. Send 
them to Yawdley and Ausibel for the surgeons. 
Tell them to ride hard.” 

Like the flash of a white spectre, the girl disap- 
peared in the dark. 

Grayhurst glanced at Abershaw, and for the 
first time thinking of his pistol, laid it ready to his 
hand ; but Kit lay very still. 

Then he took off his coat, and rolled it up, to 
make a pillow for Barbara’s head. 

He could feel the beating of her heart ; and now 
she opened her eyes, and spoke feebly, in low 
broken words. 

“ Grayhurst ! Is it you ? Ah, yes. Did I not tell 
you? In the shoulder — strange, strange! 

** Tell Dick I’m glad. For him, for him — you 
understand ? — I am glad. 

** Squire — forgive — God bless my squire ! 

“ Winifred — Grayhurst.” She raised her hand 
to her lips, and kissed it twice, smiling. 

“ Tell Phyllis — I’m glad — for Dick — Good-bye ! ” 

Good-bye ! 

From somewhere in the house came the long 
quavering howl of Golf. The faithful old hound 
had scented death. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


DEATH RISES TO EXPLAIN. 

A ll unnerved and trembling now, the American 
knelt there, amazed and pity-stricken, and 
his hot tears fell fast upon the bosom that never 
more a wave of life should lift ; and so Phyllis, 
returning from the stables, found him ; but in a 
moment he was on his feet, with all ’his wits about 
him. 

I roused the men, sir, and they are saddling.’* 
** What did you tell them ? ” 

^‘Nothing, sir — only that some one had been 
hurt. I thought you might need help ; so I 
brought Paisley. You can trust him, sir; he is 
waiting by.” 

“Tell him to run back, and stop the men ; the 
doctors will not be wanted.” 

The girl clasped her hands, and a stifled cry 
broke from her lips. 

“ Hush, my poor lass ! — Send the man at once ! 
Tell him to return here.” 

She went, and was back again in a moment. 

“ Now, Phyllis, go to Miss Lynn’s dressing- 
room ; light the lamp, open the window, and wait 
there for me. Be careful ! let no one hear you.” 


294 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


She disappeared by the servants’ door ; and 
presently Grayhurst, hearing the man returning, 
went to meet him. 

^‘Paisley, Abershaw has been hurt. Tell the 
men to put a horse to a light cart, and wait with 
it at the head of the avenue. Stay with them 
until that is done. Then leave one man with the 
cart, and let the other come here, with you. — 
Stay ! fetch a few turns of strong cord ; bed-cord 
will do. Be quick, and make no npise.” 

When the man had gone, Grayhurst raised the 
lifeless form of Barbara, and removed it to a con- 
cealed spot under the wall of the little office, 
where it could not be seen by the men ; and when 
they came, they fou^nd him leaning over the 
prostrate bailiff, and holding his hand. 

“Abershaw is only stunned. Paisley; he will 
recover soon. The man had a crazy turn, and I 
followed him, fearing he would hurt some one. 
He was dangerous, you see, and I had to quiet 
him with my stick.” 

“ ’Twere an ugly lick, sir.” 

“ Yes ; but there was no time to measure licks, 
and we’ll have him on his legs presently. Now 
carry him to the cart, and let us get him to the 
lodge. Did you fetch the cord?” 

“Ay, sir! ” 

“ Bind him, hand and foot, if he struggles. 
Remember, he’s dangerous. If he gets to talking 
wildly, humor him — tell him it was a fit. Lay 


DEA TH RISES TO EXPLAIN. 


295 


him in his bunk at the lodge, and keep your eyes 
on him, all of you, till I come. Paisley, you are 
a sensible fellow ; see that the men hold their 
tongues. You shall know all about this affair in 
the morning.” 

“ And ’tis not far to day-break now, sir.” 

“ Lose no time then. Get him into the cart.” 

As the men raised the unconscious bailiff, he 
moaned slightly, but did not stir. 

Grayhurst waited until the sound of the slow- 
going cart was lost in the depths of the avenue ; 
then he turned to the sadder task before him. 
Very tenderly, as one moves a suffering child that 
sleeps at last, he took the poor dead lady in his 
arms, laying a mourning brother’s kiss upon the 
cold pale brow ; and so he bore her, by the path 
she had so often trod at night, past the great tree, 
and under the window of the old banqueting-hall, 
where ghosts might even now be spying, to 
Marmaduke’s ladder, in the farther wing. Here 
Phyllis waited with her lamp ; and as Grayhurst 
ascended, bearing his painful burden, he thought 
how he had last seen Barbara entering by that 
way. For all was plain to him now: the Devil 
Dick of that night, the wanton rider and the 
shameless lover as he had imagined, lay dead on 
his shoulder here ; and he shuddered in recalling 
the slander of his own thought, as if she might 
arraign him now for the wrong he had done her 
then. 


296 


AF7'ER HIS KIND, 


From the dressing-room, the maid, bearing the 
light, led the way into the chamber ; and there 
he laid his burden on a couch, and turned to his 
companion. 

“ Phyllis,” he said, taking her hand kindly, it 
was too late for the doctors, — poor lady ! ” 

The girl sank moaning to the floor, and held 
her lips with her hands, to forbid her own outcry ; 
and for some minutes Grayhurst left her to herself. 
Then he said: “Come, lass! be brave and 
thoughtful. There is much to do ; this is dreadful 
business, and I have only you to help me. Get 
up ! and listen to me. 

“ Go call the housekeeper. Tell her Miss Lynn 
has been hurt, and bring her here; I will explain. 
See that you make no noise; take off your shoes 
and creep carefully. The Squire must not know 
to-night.” 

Sadly, heavily, the girl struggled to her feet, 
and for a moment stood bewildered, turning upon 
Grayhurst that half-questioning, half-imploring 
look he had seen her turn to Jekyll. 

“ Phyllis, have you understood me?” 

“Ay, sir! Mrs. Pennyweight. I will be care- 
ful, sir ; ” and she disappeared in the gallery, glid- 
ing noiseless. 

As Grayhurst paused there, following her move- 
ments, his mind was in a mad turmoil, stirred by 
the impetuous assault of surprises, conjectures, 
memories, suspicions, bafflings, fears : Barbara, 


DBA TH RISES TO EXPLAIN. 297 

cunningly personating Jekyll ; Phyllis, in the arms 
of a lover — yet not by assignation, for she had 
whispered “ Why are you here ?” Her horror in 
recognizing her mistress ; the night-rider dead on 
that couch ; Winifred’s injunction, “ When you 
have found him, tell no one but me ; ” the wisdom 
of Dolly’s warning ; Abershaw’s mad jealousy, 
well-founded ; Devil Dick’s dark wooing ; Phyllis 
his paramour — impossible! Already he had 
looked for signs of guilt in the beautiful creature, 
and found only the calm of a chaste and tender 
sorrow. And how had Winifred described Phyllis 
— Winifred ever wise with the unerring insight of 
love? “ This innkeeper’s daughter,” she had said, 
“is one of nature’s ladies.” No, no ! impossible. 

But Barbara : could it be jealous love after all 
that had done this deadly work in her? Was her 
disguise a trap to catch her maid ? 

Then Phyllis returned, followed by the house- 
keeper, discreet even in her astonishment and con- 
sternation. Grayhurst met them at the door, and 
taking the matron’s hand, led her quickly to the 
dressing-room. 

“ Mrs. Pennyweight,” he said, “ my presence 
here is enough to tell you all the dreadful truth. 
You have heard from Phyllis that Miss Lynn has 
been hurt.” 

“Yes, sir; but in this room, however could 
that be? Oh, let me go to her, sir! ” 

“ Listen to me, and spare me, and help me ! You 


298 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


and I have need of all our courage, all our pru- 
dence, to avert a painful scandal from this house. 
Your young lady, for a wild thoughtless freak, dis- 
guised herself, as you will see presently, and went 
down to the grounds by that window. Abershaw, 
the bailiff, who is demented now, and very 
violent, mistook her for a prowler, and attacked 
her. I had followed him, but he struck her 
in the dark. Phyllis was alarmed and came down. 
My dear old friend, the good name of this family 
is at stake, and it depends on you and me to save 
it. The Squire must not know to-night. I will be 
with him as soon as he stirs, to tell him all. — But 
your faithful care and kindness come too late.” 

“ Mr. Grayhurst ! What is it you are saying? 
Oh, sir ! you can never mean that our Barbara has 
been killed ! ” 

Grayhurst groaned, “ O God in heaven ! ” 

But the gray-haired gentlewoman only sank 
humbly on her knees, and bowed her head. So 
she rested in silence awhile ; and when she rose, 
she was calm and self-contained, with the equa- 
nimity that long habit of service imparts. The 
faithful housekeeper was true to her functions 
and her trusts; and now she must prepare to 
receive that grim guest whom it becomes us at all 
times to entertain with silence and dignity. 
Here was no place for agitation or curiosity ; 
however she might wonder, she must hold her 
peace, content that in due time all would be made 


D£A TH RISES TO EXPLAIN. 299 

clear to her ; only she asked that she might be 
alone with her young lady for a little while. 
After that, Grayhurst departed ; and matron and 
maid were left to hide the tokens of that pas- 
sionate and fatal masquerading, and dress the 
actress for a colder part. 

Low in the eastern sky faint streaks of dawn 
had begun to show, when the American returned 
to the lodge. Paisley waited for him at the gate. 
The bailiff, he said, had revived in the cart, as they 
came through the avenue. He was quiet and 
silent at first, only asking where he was, and who 
were with him. But in the lodge he had suddenly 
begun to rave, about killing some one — “ Hind- 
man’s lass, or Maister Jekyll, first one and then the 
other.” And once he struck out at the men, 
right and left, and broke for the door ; but they 
flung themselves upon him, and bound him hand 
and foot, as Mr. Grayhurst had ordered ; and now 
he was lying in his bunk there, “still and dumb 
enough — the poor crazy chap ! ” 

Grayhurst, entering, sent the men out to wait 
with Paisley, within call ; and closing the door, 
he sat on a stool beside a small table at the foot 
of the bunk, and took a long searching look at the 
slayer whom he had so nearly slain. At first the 
man lay on his side, quite still, his back to Gray- 
hurst, and seemingly unconscious of his presence; 
but presently, with an abrupt defiant movement, 
as if the unconsciousness had been feigned, he 


AFTER ms KIND. 


3CO 

turned quite over, and faced the American with 
flashing eyes. He was a muscular and athletic 
fellow, and Grayhurst, taking the measure of his 
powers, bestowed a thoughtful glance upon the 
cords that bound his wrists and ankles ; then he 
laid his pistol on the table, and lighted a cigar, 
leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. 
There was silence for some minutes, broken by 
the bailiff. 

“ Be the man dead ? ” 

Grayhurst nodded. 

‘‘ Good ! Good ! ” 

“Why? How did he harm you ? ** 

“Maister Grayhurst, he were a friend o*yourn.” 

Again the American nodded. 

“ He were one fine gentleman, you be another ; 
I be a ragged Romany beggar. So what’s the use 
o’ talkin’ ? We could never understand each 
other’s patter.” 

“ Why not ? A Romany beggar has killed a fine 
gentleman, and I want to know the reason why.” 

“ Well, then ! yerfine gentleman he just blarsted 
my poor life. He did leave nowt alive here, but 
these legs to follow him and this arm to crush him. 
My lass, that I did live for — my lass, that I were 
born for — my lass, that I’m a-goin’ to die for — 
d’ ye know what he did to her? He just fouled 
her soul for his own conceit, and left nowt o’ her 
but what a Romany tramp would be shamed to 
take to his tent and his bed. And what could I 


DEA TH RISES TO EXPLAIN, 


301 


do, but kill him ? Could I fight him ? same as 
the likes o’ you, wi’ yer swords and yer pistols and 
yer seconds, and all yer fine talk. If I had begged 
him to let me try just one grip on him, wi’ my 
bare fists and my teeth, happen he’d ’a’ laughed, 
happen he’d ’a’ sent his fellows to duck me first 
and jail me afterwards. What could I do, but kill 
him ? ” 

“ Nothing,” said Grayhurst. 

“ Nothin’, ses you, and you his friend ! Be the 
sky a-fallin’ ? ” 

“ If he did the foul thing you charge him with, 
killing was too good for him ; and I would cut 
these cords now, and let you take your chances. 
But, Abershaw, what if he did not do it? What 
if this should be all a mad slander of yours?” 

“ Hoot, sir ! Don’t sit there and make sport o’ 
a man, because his arms and legs be hobbled, and 
he can’t git at ye. Were my eyes liars and my 
ears fools, when I did see ’em an’ hear ’em together, 
in th’ avenue, in the lane, by th’ mere, in the 
Hurst ? Were it her mother’s arms as were round 
her, when I did strike him down just now? ” 

Kit, you are raving. You have not seen 
Phyllis Hindman in Mr. Jekyll’s arms to-night. 
You have not hurt Mr. Jekyll.” 

The man sprang bolt upright in the bed, and 
glared at Grayhurst, with wide eyes and open 
mouth. 

“ Ye liar ! ye sneak ! ” he roared. “Ye ha’ gotten 


302 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


yer purty pistol there ; I dare ye to cut these 
dommed cords.” 

“Shall I call in the men, to gag you?” said 
Grayhurst, calmly, “ or will you lie still and hear 
me out? I say you have not seen Mr. Jekyll to- 
night ; because at this very moment he is alive and 
well at Sylcaster. You have been beside yourself, 
I tell you ; and it was I who had you bound and 
brought here. Will you believe me, if I bring Mr. 
Jekyll to you ? ” 

An expression of helplessness and despair, most 
pitiful to see, settled upon the man’s face. 

“ For the love o’ God ! ” he cried, “shoot me 
through the head ! ” 

Presently he lay down again, and turned his face 
to the wall. 

“ Go fetch him ! ” he said. “ I mun see the man ; 
I mun touch him ; I mun hear him speak.” 

“ Then promise me. Kit, that you will wait 
patiently, and ask no questions till I return.” 

“ What’s the good o’ questions? 1 ha’ heerd too 
much a’ready. Fetch that man ! ” 

Grayhurst went out to the gate, and sent in 
Paisley. “ Stay with him,” he said, “ but do not 
talk. I think he will be quiet now. Let the other 
men remain outside, within call.” 

We remember that Grayhurst had gone to Wyn- 
hold in search of Jekyll, and that old Nanny had 
said her master was not to return until the morrow, 
in the afternoon ; but later in the day, Luke, 


D£A TH RISES TO EXPLAIN. 303 

making his regular trip to The Chequers, reported 
that Mr. Jekyll had spoken to him as he drove out 
of the inn-yard at Sylcaster ; and had said that, if 
he could make an end of his business in time, he 
should ride to Wynhold that night. “ Even now,” 
thought Grayhurst, “he may be at the Croft;” 
and with the thought, not staying for a horse, he 
started for Wynhold. 

Dick had returned some time before, and was 
sleeping now ; but roused by the urgent call of his 
friend, he sprang to admit him, and to read the 
dreadful tidings in those heavy eyes, and in the 
first faltering words of grief and kindness. For 
half an hour these two were face to face, and heart 
to heart, and thought to thought. When they 
came forth, to take the road to the lodge, side by 
side they went in silence, until the American 
could no longer forbear. 

“Jekyll,” he said, “when the Vicar saw you 
‘ making night hideous ’ under the windows of the 
Manse, you and I were sleeping at the Croft.” 

Jekyll turned a quick, inquiring glance, but said 
nothing. 

“ When I saw you, at midnight, alight at Over- 
stoke stables, put up your horse there, mount to 
Miss Lynn’s window, and enter her chamber ” 

“ For God’s sake, Grayhurst ! ” 

“ You were at the Croft, nursing old Nanny Cole. 
When I saw you last night, slain by Abershaw in 
the very arms of Phyllis Hindman ” 


AFTER HIS HIND. 


304 

Jekyll shuddered; his teeth chattered. 

“ You were miles away, riding homeward from 
Sylcaster. And now I know that both night-rider 
and lover are lying dead in a chamber at Over- 
stoke, in the person of Barbara Lynn. Tell me, 
Dick — I have a right to ask, for we are more than 
friends — what was Barbara to you?” 

Jekyll was dumb. 

“ Were you in her confidence ? Did you know 
that she sometimes personated you ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Dick ! ” said the American, laying his hand 
fondly on his comrade’s shoulder, and for a mo- 
ment detaining him. 

“ Dick, did Barbara love you ? ” 

Devil Dick turned ; and standing there in the 
grey light of the early morning, in the confessional 
of a rural solitude, he grasped that loyal hand, and 
gazed imploringly into those loyal eyes ; — and the 
American had his answer. 

Paisley was watching at the gate when the two 
gentlemen reached the lodge. 

To Grayhurst’s inquiry, if the bailiff had been 
troublesome, he replied, “No, sir; not to say 
troublesome, but restless like, and chafing, asking 
often for you — had you come, and had you 
come.” 

“ Call the men out. Paisley. Mr. Jekyll and I 
will see him.” The gentlemen entered, and closed 
the door — Jekyll keeping in the background, 


DEA TH RISES TO EXPLAIN. 305 

while Grayhurst approached the bed. Abershaw 
lay still, with his face to the wall. 

“ Kit, I am here.” 

Instantly the man sat up, all eyes and expecta- 
tion : ‘‘Where is he?” — and Jekyll came for- 
ward. 

“Let me see him !” said Kit, in a hoarse whisper. 

Grayhurst took up the candle, and threw the 
light on Jekyll’s face. 

“ Let me feel him ! ” 

Jekyll advanced his hand ; and Kit, manacled as 
he was, questioned it with his fingers, as a blind 
man might. 

“ Let me hear him speak ! ” 

“You thought you had killed me. Kit,” said 
Dick; “but here I am. You thought I had 
wronged Phyllis ; but I hold her dearer than my 
life — for Phyllis is my true and honorable wife.” 

Grayhurst turned and faced Jekyll, with amaze- 
ment in his eyes. 

“ Wife ! ” — gasped the bailiff. 

“ My wife,” repeated Jekyll. “ We have been 
man and wife since last Candlemas.” 

That strong coarse yokel swooned, like a sick 
girl ; and when he revived he turned away his face, 
and closed his eyes, and sealed his lips. From 
that moment he neither spoke nor ate. When 
they carted him to Yawdley jail, he lay like a log 
or a stone. In the presence of the magistrate, 
arraigned for the murder of Miss Lynn, he was 


3o6 


AFTER IJJS KIND. 

vacant and dumb ; and before the sitting of the 
assize he died in his cell — all that was left of him. 


When Paisley and his men had re-entered the 
lodge, and the two friends halted for some mo- 
ments at the gate, the American said : 

“ Dick, do you remember our first interview at 
The Chequers, and your petulant sketch of Phyllis ? 
— ‘ Daughter of an inn-keeper, companion of a bar- 
maid ; hairdresser, stay-lacer and pin-sticker in 
ordinary, to a squire’s niece.’ — Were you married 
then, Dick?” 

“ Yes, and my fling offended you : — you could 
not understand.” 

“True; but I suspected, even then, that behind 
those bitter words you were hiding something 
nobler.” 

“And then and there, John Grayhurst, you 
made me yours* for life.” 

So they clasped hands and parted, taking differ- 
ent ways — Grayhurst by the avenue, to confront 
the shock of the Squire’s horror; and Jekyll by 
the mere-path to Brignal, to face the accusing 
sorrow of Winifred. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


AN END AND A BEGINNING. 

T he talk of the parish took its tone from the 
Manor-House ; the American’s version of the 
tragedy, as he had imparted it to the Squire, was 
the accepted story : Abershaw, demented by his 
hopeless passion for Phyllis, had been skulking in 
the grounds at midnight, and lurking under the 
maid’s window ; Mr. Grayhurst, knowing the 
man’s condition, and fearing he might be danger- 
ous, had gone to look for him at the lodge, and 
not finding him there, had followed him to the 
House; Miss Lynn had imprudently descended 
from her dressing-room, to stroll in the shrubbery 
at that romantic hour; and Kit, mistaking her for 
a prowler, or a rival perhaps, had sprung upon her 
from his hiding-place in the clump of firs, and 
stabbed her in the dark; Mr. Grayhurst had come 
upon them, only in time to disable the gipsy, as 
he was in the act of repeating the stroke ; and 
Phyllis, in her room overhead, alarmed by the 
struggle, had gone to Miss Lynn’s assistance. 
Barbara’s disguise, and all that it denoted of her 
secret life, was never known, even to the Squire ; 


3o8 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


only to Winifred did Jekyll reveal it, pleading for 
his own love and honor. 

On the evening before the funeral, the two 
friends, oppressed by the conflict of their own 
emotions, and the stress of perplexity and dis- 
may, withdrew to the seclusion of the mere, to 
collect their thoughts and take counsel together. 
They talked of Barbara; and Jekyll, who alone 
was in her secret, and had freely passed from one 
chamber to the other of her double life, now drew 
the curtain and admitted Grayhurst. 

Bright and clever as she was, he said, she was 
intellectually erratic, and seemed at times to divert 
herself with freaks of vohmiary She had 

the adventurous temperament ; and her disguises 
and escapades were at first but an expression of 
intellectual restlessness, and a protest against the 
stifling dulness of her environments. In her 
childhood in Normandy, after the death of her 
mother, abandoned to the unwholesome com- 
panionship of Garrick Lynn, it had been his freak 
to dress the precocious little maid as a boy, and 
to teach her to ride astride, mounted on her small 
pony. The impression thus made upon the mind of 
the child remained to the young woman, and be- 
came a serious proposition and conviction. Play- 
fully with the Squire, seriously with Jekyll, Bar- 
bara continued to maintain that the side-riding of 
English women was absurd, because unnatural and 
unsafe ; and the superior equestrianism of the girls 


AN END AND A BEGINNING. 309 

of Oahu was her triumphant argument against the 
side-saddle. 

“You know,” said Dick, “that an apartment is 
always reserved for meat Overstoke; for weeks at 
a time I have been domiciled there ; and I have 
even fancied that the Squire would have had 
me regard the Manor, rather than the Croft, as 
my home. Many of my belongings are in that 
room — things that I have left there from time to 
time ; especially a riding-suit, such as I usually 
wear. Barbara found this ; and once, when the 
careering spirit possessed her, the chance for her 
equestrian exploit tempted her to a characteristic 
adventure. From Bolingstone she procured (‘ for 
private theatricals ’) a wig in the fashion of my 
hair, donned my clothes at night, let herself out 
by the window and ladder, saddled her mare with 
her own hands, and rode in the avenue and lane. 
The success of that experiment — its safety and its 
exhilaration — allured her to bolder flights ; before 
long she appeared in the highway, at Yawdley, 
under the very windows of the Manse ; and it 
was always Devil Dick, you remember. When 
the masquerading mood was upon her, she took 
pains to inform herself of my movements, so that 
there might never be two Devil Dicks abroad at 
the same time. Only once, by chance we met, 
near Brignal Lane; then she saluted me gaily; 
and when I would have reproached and warned 
her^ she turned and dashed homeward, laughing 


310 


AFTER HIS HIND. 


merrily ; only the humor of the situation im- 
pressed her. 

“ Barbara was proudly chaste ; the erratic pro- 
pensity she inherited was strictly intellectual ; 
graver license was impossible to her, and the child 
of Mildred Shustoke was known by the purity of 
her mind. She was incorrigible by her very inno- 
cence ; my bungling homilies were lost upon her, 
they only served to amuse her ; and with a comi- 
cal perversity she compelled me to keep her secret 
by accepting the reputation and the report she 
had made for me. Even Winifred, was first 
deceived and then bewildered.” 

‘‘And Thorpe?” said Grayhurst. 

“Thorpe is clever ; and if he had loved her, he 
might have found her dut. But his scrutiny was 
confined to her hatred of him, her scorn of his 
pretentions, and the probable defeat of his mer- 
cenary schemes.” 

“ Where is Thorpe now ? ” inquired Grayhurst, 
“ and why did he go away ? ” 

“Who cares where he is? We have only to re- 
joice that he is not here,” said Jekyll. “I think 
we shall never know why he went, since Barbara 
is silenced. When I told her the cruel coach had 
borne her love away to Bolingstone, she merely 
said, ‘That is the last of him! ' How solemn those 
words sound now! ” 


Was it a vague presage of her own swift taking. 


A/^ END AND A BEGINNING, 31 1 

off, impending then, that prompted Barbara’s 
thoughtful prayer, as she sat at her uncle’s knee, so 
chastened and so still — that the poor folk of the 
parish might have, next Sunday, their service and 
their bells, and the ministrations of “ that sweet 
old man ” from Ausibel ? The bells were tolling 
now for her, the service for the dead awaited her, 
and the sweet old man lingered to tell once more 
the tale that hath ever a charm to hold children 
from play and old men from the chimney-corner : — 
how Death is procured “ by every instrument and 
in all chances, and enters in at many doors : by 
God’s mercy or by God’s anger; by everything 
in providence, and everything in manners ; by 
everything in nature, and everything in chance.” 

And so, by the lych-Iane they passed, and set 
down their burden under the ancient shed of the 
lych-gate, resting there for the coming of the 
priest ; and then, as the little company took up 
the march again, and defiled between the graves 
toward the church porch, the simple country-folk, 
of all degrees and ages (for Winifred had “ mar- 
shaled her children ”) fell into their places and 
swelled the sad procession. 

Bareheaded and bowed with grief, behind the 
bier came the Squire, supported on either side by 
Grayhurst and Winifred, and followed by Phyllis 
on the arm of Jekyll — whereat the whole parish 
wondered ; then came Mrs. Pennyweight and 
Judith with Keyes, the butler, and Toby Hind- 


312 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


man with Dolly, and staunch Christie Breme — all 
tender and true. 

When one by one the cottagers advanced, to 
take their last look at the face of the poor mur- 
dered lady under the coffin lid, one pale reluc- 
tant girl staggered backward, and fell into the 
arms of Janet Drum. It was Bessie Mann; for 
she had beheld in Barbara’s coffin the white face 
of Cicely, the Snow Bride, as she had seen it 
that night at the lych-gate. 


A week had passed since the funeral, and the 
Squire, soothed by the soft touch and tender tones 
of Winifred, by the tfiousand cunning allurements 
of her most sweet solicitude, had been won over 
to the calm of a pious resignation. By a touch- 
ing coincidence, she sat now at his feet, in Barbara’s 
place, in Barbara’s attitude, her cheek upon his 
knee, her hand caressing his ; and he stroked her 
brown hair, and exchanged secrets with her in ac- 
cents soft and low, as once he had done with Mil- 
dred’s child. 

She had told him of the secret marriage; for 
Jekyll had confided all to her, and had charged 
her to find shelter for Phyllis in the kindest har- 
bor of the old man’s heart ; and the Squire had 
said, 

“ The lass is to be accepted for Dick’s sake. 


AJV END AND A BEGINNING, 313 

and beloved for her own sake. But why did they 
hide themselves ? Could they not trust me and 
you, Winifred ? '' 

It was the girl’s doing,” she replied. Her 
love is inexpressibly humble and timid, and she 
feared for Dick. She is an obscure inn-keeper’s 
daughter ; you are the Lord of the Manor, and the 
head of an ancient house. How could she over- 
come that awe of you, which was proper to her 
training and her place ? She feared your reproach, 
she feared the sneers of others ; she feared that 
Dick’s pride, even his love for you, might come to 
harm through her. Of course she was all wrong, 
dear; but then she was perfectly right — don’t 
you see ?” 

For the first time since that fatal morning when 
his heart stood still, the Squire smiled. 

Dick reasoned with her,” she continued ; 

Dick remonstrated. His pride was all in her; 
his love for you protested against her fear of 
you. I have told you how they were married at 
Bolingstone, when Phyllis went there at Candle- 
mas to visit some of her mother’s people. When 
they returned, man and wife, Dick would have 
brought her to me, that we three pretty culprits 
might wheedle you in concert. But Phyllis 
shrank from the ordeal. It would be time enough,” 
she said, “ when they sailed for America.” 

“ For America, Winifred ! ” 

Yes, dear: Dick’s heart has long been set upon 


314 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


that scheme — to try his fortunes in the West. 
And you must let him go, where he can breathe 
the air of free endeavor and promotion, and meas- 
ure his strength with men. He has chafed and 
fretted here too long, and you must set him free. 
He has assured me that since Grayhurst came, to 
tell us of Shustokes in Maryland and California, 
his yearning has grown intolerable. Is it not 
time, dear, that he should know who his grand- 
father was — that Devil Dick Shustoke, of Garrison 
Forest and Overstoke? ” 

“So Mr^ Grayhurst has been telling you my 
secret ! ” 

“Yes, dear; I am. in Mr. Grayhurst’s confidence, 
because Mr. Grayhurst is in my heart. And I 
have brought you two secrets, to pay for the one 
I stole. The' American is coming to ask you for 
your Winifred and your blessing; and your Wini- 
fred has caught a fine Maryland Shustoke for you 
— Jekyll and Grayhurst are cousins; for their 
grandfathers were brothers. Ah ! I knew that 
would make you happy ; I knew that would make 
you proud ! And now, you will let Dick go, will 
you not ? if only that he may flutter the beauties 
of Baltimore, with the charms of a Midlandshire 
lass.” 

“ God bless you, my child ! ” said the Squire. 
“You are well named Lady Goodluck, for you 
come to me in my sorrow with joyful tidings and 
a glorious promise : John Grayhurst to be Lord 


AN END AND A BEGINNING. 315 

of the Manor of Overstoke ; and Devil Dick J ek- 
yll to set up the cross-crosslets of the Shustokes 
in Garrison Forest! So shall the good old breed 
be doubly restored, and the Squire’s Psalm be 
sung in a Maryland homestead/’ 


EPILOGUE. 


''WIN I F RED A.” 

S IX years later. There have been changes in the 
economy of The Chequers. Toby Hindman, 
beginning to feel old and dull, has relinquished 
the cares of office, and now takes his ease in his 
own inn, content to abide in conspicuous and 
ornamental retirement — like his own “ old ancient 
sign, proclaiming the hospitable traditions of the 
house. In due time Sylcaster Luke came down 
from the coach to marry Dolly, and take the 
" public '' off the old man's hands ; and some- 
where about the house, a little Toby in a pinafore 
is domineering with a high hand, and doing his 
best to show " Guv’nor ” who is master of The 
Chequers now. 

The bar-maid problem, delicate and danger- 
ous, has been happily solved by the instal- 
lation of Susan Crotty, Luke’s young sister, 
sufficiently pretty and comically demure, who 
contrives to maintain a certain amateurish dignity 
(surprising and delightful to the strictly profes- 
sional Dolly), whereby osculatory adventurers are 
warned to keep their distance. And so peace 


EPILOGUE, 317 

reigns at The Chequers, and “ big Toby,” as now 
he is called to distinguish him from his more im- 
portant namesake in the pinafore, grows fatter 
and prouder every day, entertaining old cronies, 
across a churchwarden and a tankard, with won- 
derful stories of my Phyllis lass, away over in 
Maryland.” 

“ Brignal banks are fresh and fair,” and Brignal 
Hurst is green as ever. The pretty wicket ad- 
mits the summer visitor to a scene that has lost no 
feature of its complete and perfect delightsome- 
ness. The garden is as gloriously arrayed, the 
birds as blythe and tuneful, the bee-hives as 
populous and bustling, the orchard as opulent, 
and the burn as wanton and garrulous, as in that 
earlier time when their fair mistress, blending in 
herself the charms of bird and flower and bee, 
crowned the enchanting picture with her presence, 
in the embowered framing of the porch. 

But within, all is changed. Winifred and Judith 
and Mutzie have departed, leaving only the honest 
homespun Christie to rule over a mumbling, de- 
crepit kingdom of afflicted crones ; for Winifred 
has transformed Brignal into a Home for poor old 
women, who would else have been on the parish. 
Only the hall and the family-room, with their 
storied belongings, remain as they ever had been ; 
all the rest of the house presents the strictness of 
a hospital, softened and sweetened by the graces 
of home; and Christie, taking instructions of wise 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


318 

love and impartial law from her mistress, adminis- 
ters bounty and flattery, with good sense and a 
sense of humor, to the exactions of aching bones 
and the egotism of wheezy querulousness. Thus 
has Lady Goodluck consecrated her local habita- 
tion, and made her name a benediction. 

Along the winding path that Winifred had 
named “ Dalliance,” every field-flower, every 
toad-stool seems friendly and familiar, as in the 
time when Grayhurst first took that way to the 
churchyard in her sweet company. Are these the 
same chithering grasshoppers that greeted him 
then ? Is this the same demoralized hen, stealing 
a nest in the hedge, that Mutzie routed so noisily ? 

And the Manor-House ? — benevolent and placid 
as of yore ; only softly touched with grey, like the 
temples of a dear old friend, who reminds us that 
'tis six years since we met, and he is growing old. 
Otherwise we look in vain for change in any 
aspect of the gracious house — save that the clump 
of firs is gone ; Marmaduke’s ladder is no longer 
here ; and the grim oaken shutters, that guarded 
the window of Barbara’s dressing-room, have been 
replaced by a pretty jutting casement, cheerfully 
curtained, and brightened with growing flowers. 

Randal Marmaduke has been gathered to his 
fathers, and the group of goodly squires in the 
churchyard is the nobler for his company ; while 
his place in Overstoke House is filled by a 
Shustoke of the new breed — 


EPILOGUE. 319 

There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, 

And a new face at the door, my friend, 

A new face at the door.” 

When his will was opened, it was found that, in 
terms of endearment addressed to “ my well-be- 
loved Winifred Blythe,” and with peculiar bles- 
sings invoked for her good husband, “ my Ameri- 
can kinsman, who has right manfully commended 
himself to my confidence and regard,” he had 
made John Grayhurst heir to all his lands and 
tenements, and Master of Overstoke. 

To Richard, son of the late Arthur Jekyll and 
Johanna, his wife, “ and grandson of that Richard 
Shustoke, of Garrison Forest in Maryland, whom 
God's Providence did in mercy spare to be my 
father’s friend in England ” — he bequeathed all 
the income of his two farms in the parish of Wyn- 
hold, and of a certain considerable mill property 
in Bolingstone, “ to be by him and his heirs en- 
joyed, for the promotion of their fortunes, and the 
honorable maintenance of their station in Mary- 
land.” 

And so John Grayhurst sits in the Squire’s seat, 
and keeps the Squire’s memory green in the 
grateful hearts of three parishes. 

This is his wedding-day, and the old house 
is sunny and tuneful with the happy recur- 
rence of its benison. He is in the Library, 
and has opened wide the windows, that no 
brightness may be lacking anywhere to-day. 


320 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


As the butler enters with the early mail, to 
call the new “ Squire ” to breakfast, a burst of 
jocund tumult comes through the open door : the 
voices of children in merry prattle and laughter, 
and Winifred singing for her little ones the song 
she sang for Mutzie in the porch at Brignal, be- 
fore John Grayhurst came. 


A ndantino. 



O Springes a pleasant time, Flow’rs of ev’ry color ; The 


1 






-5J- 


sweet bird builds hernest, And I long for my lov-er. 






Si 


1 0 1 1 1^ 


J S - 

< 




* • 3 

e 1. : 


Aye wauk - in’ O, Wauk - in’ aye, and wea - ry ; 


1 r— ir-z tr 

rd 


r m ^ n r— ^ m 

r J -m J T P • 


9 r r 9 __ 

t — ¥ f J J 

e — ^ 


Sleep I can get nane, For thinkin* o’ my Dear-ie. 


Feather beds are soft, 
Painted rooms are bonnie ; 
But a kiss o’ my dear love 
Is better far than ony." 


In honor of the occasion, Keyes has relaxed his 
professional demeanor, and has decked his button- 


EPILOGUE. 


321 


hole with a flower, and his face with a subdued 
smile. 

My respects and duty to you, sir; and wishing 
you many happy returns of the day.” 

“ Thank you, Keyes ! I trust you will be here to 
share them with us, always. Send a bottle of 
wine to Mrs. Pennyweight, with our compli- 
ments ; and see that the maids and the men have 
good cheer.” 

Even the post has not forgotten the day, for it 
brings a letter from Jekyll. 

“Phyllis reminds me,” he writes, “that this let- 
ter may reach you on your wedding-day ; and so 
you must try to find the love upon love we have 
knitted into every line of it, for you and Winifred, 
and for your darlings. Our little Gray and Bar- 
bara have kissed it so many times, that it will be 
hard for you to determine where the ink ends and 
their moist raptures begin. Here in this pretty 
homestead in Garrison Forest (only there’s no 
forest now), we are as happy as the day is long. 
We have all the company we can entertain ; for 
these pleasant Maryland people, whose friendliness 
is as hearty as their hospitality is profuse, are 
continually attracted by the beauty and the sweet- 
ness of my Phyllis ; and so our Croft has become 

a sort of show-place. Yesterday afternoon, 

being Sunday, we walked in the little cemetery of 
the Shustokes (‘ burial-ground ’ they call it here). 
One broad stone is ever the first we seek for and 


322 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


the last we leave, because Overstoke and Garrison 
Forest are reunited there : LOST AT Sea : RICH- 
ARD Shustoke : Born at Garrison Forest, 
April 4. MDCCLIX : Resurgam ! — So Devil 
Dick, sleeping in Overstoke churchyard, greets 
Devil Dick in a Maryland burial-ground.” 

Thoughtfully Grayhurst leans upon his hand, 
his gaze resting on the letter lying there, his 
thoughts far-wandering in a maze of memories ; 
but his reverie is broken by a sudden wild assault 
of offspring. There are but two of them, but who 
can number the arms and legs? — between his 
knees, on his breast, around his neck, on his back, 
in his hair. 

“ Mamma says count us, papa ! and see if we 
are all here.” 

“ What do you think, papa ? Poor old Mutzie 
fell into the bath, and Randal jumped in and saved 
her life. Was not that brave? ” 

“ Pooh, Winnie ! ” says Randal ; “ that’s nothing. 
Any man would do that much for a fellow-creat- 
ure.” 

“And oh, papa! but Judy is naughty. She 
refuses to say her prayers — only think ! ” 

“ I thought Judy was more obliging ; you must 
have been very tiresome.” 

“ No, indeed, papa ! We only advised her to 
get down on her knees and say her prayers — so we 
could climb on her back. Oh, but it’s nice! Just 
try it once, papa.” 


EPILOGUE. 


323 


John Grayhurst had a vision then, of his fond 
old nurse in Maryland, kneeling by his little 
trundle-bed, and making a back of prayers for him 
to climb by, ever since. 

“ I have tried it, my dear," he said. 


Ah ! delectable mother ! beautiful exceedingly, 
with the dimpled fullness and softness of ripe 
womanhood ; pensive and tender with the ecstasy 
and yearning of a glorified maternity ; fair as 
Winifred Blythe and gracious as Lady Goodluck ; 
and young, with the immortal youth of a heart 
that entertains the confidences of angels ! 

Ah ! well may her husband, embracing her so 
fondly, regarding her so proudly, ascribing to her 
influence all temporal beatitudes — well may he turn 
a thought of thankfulness to that unknown poet, 
who with a poet’s bounty had allotted her to his 
imagination even from his youth : — 

" Away I let naught to love displeasing, 

My Winifreda, move your care ; 

Let naught delay the heavenly blessing — 

Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. 


“ What though no grants of royal donors 
With pompous titles grace our blood. 
We’ll shine in more substantial honors. 
And to be noble we’ll be good. 


324 


AFTER HIS KIND. 


“ Our name, while virtue thus we tender, 

Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke ; 

And all the great ones, they shall wonder 
How they respect such little folk. 

“What though from Fortune’s lavish bounty 
No mighty treasures we possess ? 

We’ll find within our pittance plenty, 

And be content without excess. 

“ Still shall each glad returning season 
Sufficient for our wishes give ; 

For we will live a life of reason. 

And that’s the only life to live. 

“ Through youth and age in love excelling. 

We’ll hand-in-hand together tread ; 

Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling. 
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. 

“ How should I love the pretty creatures. 

While ’round my knees they fondly clung! 

To see them look their mother’s features. 

To hear them lisp their mother’s tongue. 

“ And when with envy Time, transported. 

Shall think to rob us of our joys. 

You’ll in your girls again be courted. 

And I’ll go wooing in my boys.” 


THE END. 






V 




f 


I 








* 



4 

I 


to 


$ 


t 


' « 


to 




. t 


t 


' % 






l| 



■fc 


t 










t 






« 


% 4 * 

• f , 


* . 



I 




9 




i 



• # 


»• 




1 





I 

•' 



« 

\ 


•* 






4 




% 


« 





I 


t 







A 


1 


#•» 






/ 


/ 




% 











/ 


1 


COMSTOCK’S THE CIVIL SERVICE IN THE 
UNITED STATES. i2mo. $2.00. 

DOBSON’S AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE. 

Square 16mo, uniform with the Author’s Vignettes in Rhyme. $2. 00. 

FIELD’S CALLIRRHOE AND ROSAMUND. 

Dramatic Poems. 12mo. $1.25. 

“They are worth reading and re-reading.”— TTiC Nation. 

“ Poems of great promise. It sounds like the ring of a new voice, which is 
likely to be heard far and wide among the English speaking people.”— Z/ondow 
Spectator. 

FIELD’S FATHER’S TRAGEDY; WILLIAM 
RUFUS; LOYALTY OR LOVE? i2mo, $i 76. 

“ There seems to us fire enough In Michael Field to throw into shade some of 
the greatest writers of this century. We cannot read twenty lines anywhere 
without finding traces of a strong jgenius and a great dramatic imagination.”— 
London Spectator. 

HOLLAND’S (F. M.) THE RISE OF INTEL- 
LECTUAL LIBERTY. 

From Thales to Copernicus. A History. 8vo. $3.50. 

From a six-page review by Count Goblet d’AlvIella in the Revue Oe Belgique 
(translation). “ It is greatly to be desired that this book should find a translation, 
as should Mr. Lechy’s. * * It is fortunate that Mr. Holland has found a field of 
activity in the studies into the history of human Intelligence, which he has long 
preserved with as much talent as erudition. * * A work which, in showing us 
what freedom of thought has cost our predecessors, will perhaps lead us to 
greater care in respecting it, and greater sacrifice in maintaining it. . 

We can only refer toils comprehensiveness as a review of the progress of philos- 
ophy and religion from the time of the early Greeks down to the Reformation. * * 
His work Is much more of a history than a treatise. It is a cool, passionless study. 
Such as might be made by a philosopher and observer coming from another 
world. * * The style is strong, manly and clear, and the book is certainly re- 
markable as a history.”- PTiiiadcilpTiia Bulletin. 

MERRIAM’S (Dr. C. HART) MAMMALS OF 
THE ADIRONDACK REGION, 

With a complete index. 8vo. $3. 50. 

“ There is not a line that the boy naturalist cannot understand and appreciate 
as well as^the advanced scientist.”— Or’7M77iotor7?’st and, Oologist. 

REPRESENTATIVE GERMAN POEMS. 

The Original Texts, with English versions. Edited by Karl Knortz. 
8vo. $3.50. 

RALPH, THE DRUMMER BOY. 

A Story of the days of Washington. By Louis Rousselet. Trans- 
lated by W. T. Gordon. Illustrated. 12mo. $1.50. 

ROUMANIAN FAIRY TALES. 

Uniform with “ Pilgrim Sorrows.” Square 12mo. $1.25. 

“ A treasure of popular literature.”— A" Y. Times. 

“ Delightful wild stories of fancy. To the lovers of fairy tales this volume will 
give a fresh pleasure.”— Ro.slon. Advertiser. 

“ There is an unusual abundance of good fairy-lore this season, and among the 
best is Roumanian Fairy Tales.”— TAe Critic. 

“ Wild, fantastic and yet beautiful— bright and cheery. The book is a revela- 
tion. While they will astonish as well as amuse young people, they will teach 
them lessons as good as those of .^Esop’s Fables.”— P/iiiadeZpMa Bulletin. 

HENRY HOLT & CO., Publishers, New York. 


TAINES’ FRENCH REVOLUTION. 

Translated by J. Durand. VoLIII. completing the work. 12mo. $2. 50. 

THOMAS’S captain PHIL. 

A Boy’s Experience in the Western Army during the War of the 
Rebellion. By M. M. Thomas. Illustrated. 12mo. $1.50. 

WARINC’S HOW TO DRAIN A HOUSE. 

16mo. Illustrated. $1,25. 

BANISTER’S (H. C.) MUSIC. 

16mo. (Hand-book Series), $1.00. 

DE BACOURT’S SOUVENIRS OF A 
DIPLOMAT. 

During the Administrations of Van Buren, Harrison, and Tyler. 
12mo. $1.50. 

FALCKE’S GREECE AND ROME. 

A new and cheaper edition. 400 Hlustrations, Quarto, $10.00. 

JOHNSTON’S HISTORY OF THE U. S., 

With numerous maps and illustrations. 12mo. $1.40. 

JOHNSON’S (H. K.) OUR FAMILIAR SONGS, 

And those who made them. 300 Songs with Piano accompaniment, 
and sketches of their composers. A new and cheaper edition, 8vo. 
$3.00. 

THE LEISURE-HOUR SHAKESPEARE. 

The text of Dyce, with his glossary, also with a life, and an account 
of each play by A, R. MAcfarlane. 7 vols. 16mo. $7.00. 

SUMNER’S PROTECTIONISM. 

The -Ism which Teaches that Waste makes Wealth. 16mo. $1.00. 

SYMONDS’ RENAISSANCE IN ITALY. 

5 vols. 8vo. $2.00 per vol. The set in a box, $10.00. 

Parti. — Age of Despots. Part II. — The Revival of Learning. Part 
III, — The Fine Arts. Part IV. — Italian Literature. 2 vols. 

TIERNAN’S (M.S.) SUZETTE. 

Anew Novel of Virginian Life in 1840. 16mo. $1.25. 

YOUNG’S (Wm.) WISHMAKER’S TOWN. 

A Poem. Parchment. 16mo. $1.25. 

“ Compels one to return for reperusal .” — Boston Acivertiser. 


HENRY HOLT d GO., Publishers, New York. 





